


charge me up (like electricity)

by allirica



Series: we can be heroes verse [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, BAMF Allison, BAMF Steve Rogers, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Explosions, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grenades, Guns, Injury, M/M, Marvel Universe, Mind Control, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, SHIELD, Snipers, Switching, Torture, Versatile Steve Rogers, Versatile Stiles Stilinski, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-01-31 19:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 124,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18597784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allirica/pseuds/allirica
Summary: sequel to 'we can be heroes', third story in the 'we can be heroes' verse.***Steve, Bucky, Thor and Hulk have their supernatural strength, speed and healing abilities, not to mention Thor has Mjolnir, and Bucky has his arm.  Clint has his bow and arrows and Natasha has her incredible combat skills.  Tony has his suit of armor, sure, and he’s definitely not vulnerable outside of it, either, but out of all of them, he gets it most: Stiles is just a human, and he needs all of the advantages he can get if he ever has to go up against superpowered people.***Between his relationship with Steve, working for SHIELD, and growing closer to the rest of the Avengers, Stiles feels that things are finally going well.  But there's a new threat targeting superheroes, his friendship with Scott is changing, and it's hard to trust the people you work with when they happen to all be spies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/gifts).



> thank you so much to everyone who gave feedback on 'we can be heroes'! I really appreciate it and I'm enjoying writing for this verse, so I really hope you like this follow up fic.
> 
> warning in this chapter for: canon-typical violence in the form of sparring.

“Your coffee’s gone cold.”

Stiles blinks, looking up at Natasha as she crosses the communal kitchen. She picks up the pot of coffee, pouring herself a mug full before joining him at the table. Her fingers drift across his shoulder as she sits down.

He’s learned that when Natasha is comfortable, when she’s able to just be herself, she’s pretty affectionate towards the people she completely trusts, in a quiet, unspoken kind of way. She tends to express the fact that she cares with brief, easy touches, but considering she’s usually pretty closed off and guarded, the scant physical contact speaks volumes.

Stiles knows that the circle of people Natasha allows herself to trust like that is very, very small. Being a part of it is kind of an honor.

“Yeah,” he says, looking down at his mug. “I kinda zoned out.”

“Tired?” 

He nods. “Training is kicking my ass.”

“Who have they got training you?” Natasha asks.

“It varies. Agent May’s in charge of training recruits, so she does a lot of it. But I’ve worked with some of the other agents, too.” He rubs at his bruised shoulder. “Agent Hunter did some training with us yesterday. He was pretty hard on me. I think he’s still pissed about the whole hitting him in the face with a cell phone thing.”

“I have heard that he likes to hold a grudge,” she agrees mildly. 

Stiles nods. He’s quiet for a moment, just watching the calm surface of his coffee before he adds, “And I miss Steve.”

“It’s been about a week now, hasn’t it?”

Stiles is aware that she knows as well as he does that it’s been exactly nine days since Steve left with Bucky and a team of SHIELD operatives on a mission, but he just nods.   
It’s an extended mission, two weeks at minimum, some recon into something going on in Europe, but Steve hadn’t been able to tell him anything more detailed. He’s also off the grid, so Stiles hasn’t been able to contact him. 

“He’ll be fine,” Natasha offers.

“Of course he will be. It’s Steve. I just…I dunno. We’ve been in each other’s space a lot lately so now he’s not around, it feels weird.”

“How is living together going?” 

Stiles blinks. “We’re not living together.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “You sleep in the same bed. You stay in the same suite. All of your clothes are in the same closet and I know there are two toothbrushes in that bathroom.” 

“Okay, well, yeah, but he still has his own place -.”

“He gave up his apartment a month ago.”

“He did _what_ now?” 

“Does it change anything? It’s not like you even noticed it.”

“Well, no, but I feel like that is the sort of thing you _mention_ ,” Stiles points out. “I maybe should have been informed that we’re now living together.”

“You already _were_. It’s just official now.”

She has a point. Stiles isn’t bothered, not really. He loves Steve. He’s _it_ for Stiles; the man he imagines spending his future with. So living together isn’t a big deal, not really. 

Still. It means that Steve officially lives in the tower now. Stiles had already accepted weeks ago that his extended stay at the Avengers tower has changed to permanently living there, but he hadn’t expected Steve to want to move in properly. He hadn’t wanted to before, anyway.

The rest of the team have been around a lot, too. They come and go, sure, handling their own business and personal lives, but Stiles often sees them in the communal areas. 

“Have I missed something?” he asks. “Has the whole team moved in for real?”

Natasha gives a little shrug. “After Steve moved in, it made sense that we all might as well be in the same place.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. 

“Plus, it’s fun to see Tony’s face when we’re all in the same room. He can’t figure out why we haven’t left yet. He keeps complaining about the mess in the kitchen.”

“He shouldn’t have built a glorified frat house if he didn’t want you guys to actually _use_ it,” Stiles replies.

Natasha smiles. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

“I have to be at base from six until two,” he answers. “Why?”

“Come spar with me when you get back,” she replies, rising to her feet. 

A few months ago, Stiles would have balked at the idea. Now, though, he just smiles and nods in agreement.

He’s actually looking forward to it.

***

Lowell’s back hits the mat, the _thud_ echoing through the room.

Stiles almost winces in sympathy, but then he remembers how much of a dick the other recruit is, so he doesn’t bother. Next to him, Allison doesn’t even try to hide her smile as she watches Lowell try and stagger back to his feet. 

He lifts his hands into a guard, ducking to avoid the elbow Agent May drives towards his face, but he doesn’t see the kick already snapping towards his knee until his leg crumples and he goes down again with a pained grunt. Agent May waits for him to get back up; when he doesn’t, she shakes her head, lowering her own hands. 

She steps back, glancing at the recruits circling the mats. “What was his mistake?”

“He didn’t protect his body,” Jones offers. 

“Try again.”

“He should have blocked instead of ducked,” Waitwright says.

“No.”

There’s a pause, then Davies tries, hesitantly, “He was on the defensive, instead of trying to take you down?”

Agent May just folds her arms, an unimpressed expression on her face. Silence falls over them as she waits for someone to get it right.

“He didn’t get back up.”

May’s gaze snaps to Allison. “Right,” she says, nodding once.

Allison doesn’t smile. She just watches as Lowell finally gets back to his feet, limping slightly as he joins the rest of the recruits. May wordlessly beckons another forward. The guy is skinny, but he’s observant and he’s fast, managing to avoid most of May’s blows. Still, Agent May is stronger and more experienced.

The second the guy stops dodging and throws a haymaker, it’s over. He’s thrown to the ground a second later.

“There’s always someone bigger and stronger than you,” Agent May says. “It doesn’t matter how trained in combat you are, if you come up against someone who can lift a car, you’re at a disadvantage. How do you take them out?”

Jones is the first to speak again, eager to get the answer right this time. “You have to be faster.”

May levels her with an even look. “If you make the mistake of assuming someone big can’t be _fast_ , then you deserve to get your ass kicked.”

Lowell glances towards Jones with a smirk. “Seriously, have you never watched an MMA match?”

“No,” she replies. “I actually have a sex life.”

Quiet laughter ripples over the group, especially when Lowell’s lip curls up in anger. May’s expression shifts into the barest sliver of a smile. 

“Weapons?” Kendrick says. 

“Can be used against you,” May replies. “What happens if your stronger opponent also has a weapon? Come on. Think.”

“You use your environment,” Stiles says.

She looks at him. “How?”

“You turn it into what you need, and you use what is there. Dirt, glass, a coffee mug.” He pauses. “A chain. Anything.”

She nods once. She’s not one for giving out praise or even encouragement much, but her style of teaching works. It makes them even more eager to learn, to get it right, to impress her. 

She pairs them up after that. Stiles, thankfully, is partnered with Allison. For a while, he gets to lose himself in the focus of a fight, his mind slowing down, narrowing blissfully onto each move, each block, each switch between defence and offence. 

Allison’s a skilled fighter. She has training in combat – she’s been learning since she was fourteen, after all – and she incorporates her gymnastics experience, fast and flexible and incredibly strong for her build.

But Stiles also has an advantage. Outside of his training with SHIELD, he regularly spars with a few of the best fighters in the world. They all have different teaching styles, but it works; he’s learning fast because he has to, but also because he _wants_ to.

Allison gets her knee over his arm, her other leg curling around his torso, and rolls forward into a flip that lands him hard on his back. Stiles pushes up to his knees, crosses his arms in front of his face to block her kick, and then pushes forward, knocking her off balance. She stumbles back and grins, spinning into a tornado kick that’s fast as lightning; Stiles has to duck quickly to the side to avoid it, but he feels the rush of air against his ear as her foot misses by a bare inch. 

Unlike her, he doesn’t try for a high kick; she’s too fast for it to land. Instead, he snaps a sudden side kick to her leg that knocks her to the ground and follows it by pinning her, knees on her arms to hold them down. 

Allison grins at him. “Good,” she says. “You’re getting better. Did Natasha teach you that block?”

“Clint,” he replies. 

She nods, then twists her body slightly, one knee slamming up and in to his ribs. His breath leaves him in a pained rush and she throws him off, rolling until he’s the one pinned, her arm pressing down on his throat.

By the time the session finishes, neither one of them are winning. It should be frustrating, but instead it’s kind of fun, and sparring with Allison is useful. She mixes the training SHIELD is teaching her with the styles she already knows, and he learns from that, trying to replicate her moves to enhance his own combat skills. 

Plus, there’s no vitriol on her part, no stupid need to prove herself by knocking him on his ass the way there is with the other recruits. 

They’re both breathless and a little sweaty and she grins, shaking out her body slightly. As the others start to filter out, Stiles grabs his tape from his bag, quickly wrapping his hands.

“Not done yet?” Allison asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “We’ve got a couple of hours before we’ve got to see Agent Johnson.”

“Yeah. To refuel.”

“I just need to unwind a little,” he replies. 

“Steve’s still away, huh?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Am I that obviously pathetic?”

“It’s not pathetic,” she replies, moving to hold the punching bag as he sets into a rhythm. “Remember a couple of years ago, when Scott was in Dallas for a week for those conferences Deaton invited him to? I missed him terribly. And I knew where he was and got to speak to him at least twice a day. You have no idea where Steve is, you can’t contact him, and he could be putting himself at risk. Of course you’re missing him. It’s natural.”

Stiles lands two more punches before glancing at her. “Have I told you how happy I am that Coulson decided to recruit you, as well?”

She grins. “Only ten times this week.”

Allison had been recruited just days after Stiles agreed to sign on with SHIELD. After seeing how tactically she handled having a sniper try and shoot her, plus reviewing her history of archery, gymnastics and combat training, Coulson had decided to bring her on board. 

Like Stiles, she seems happier for it. She’d loved being a firefighter but had felt untethered after ending things with Scott, a little lost when it came to her future and what she wanted to do. Joining SHIELD made her realize that being an agent, helping people, protecting the world… _that_ was what she wanted to do. Same as Stiles, who realized that law wasn’t really where his interest was anymore. 

Stiles calls it a day after half an hour. He unwraps his hands and gulps down some water before hitting the showers. He stuffs the SHIELD issue workout gear into his bag to wash back at home and gets dressed, snapping his ID badge onto his belt.

Some of the agents – such as the Director and those with the highest clearance, like May and Johnson – live permanently on base, but most of the staff, including the various teams of recruits, live in their own place and commute to the base for training. 

The base is bigger than Stiles had expected, a sprawling underground mass, and he hasn’t seen probably at least half of it. He hasn’t seen the agents quarters or communal room since the week he’d had to stay there for his own safety. 

He knows there are more bases, situated around the country, even some in other areas of the world. Coulson has built SHIELD back up from the ground. It will probably never be the giant it once was, but it’s still pretty formidable. 

There’s a small cafeteria area for the recruits, somewhere where they can kick back and relax since the higher level agents pretty much never venture into it. Allison is already there, sat at a table on her own, and she waves him over.

A pang of guilt hits him. Allison could easily be making friends; she could have the other recruits eating out of the palm of her hand in less than a day if she really wanted to. She could sit at any other table, but she doesn’t. Because of him. Because she’s incredibly loyal, and Stiles is lucky to have a friend like her.

He grabs some food and joins her, knuckles aching slightly as he picks up his fork. 

He’d learned pretty quickly that he isn’t exactly a favorite with the other recruits. Some of them stay out of his way, wary of him because of who he is, who he lives with. The others don’t even try to hide their hostility.

They think he’s only here because of his connection to the Avengers. They think he gets special treatment because he’s in a relationship with Captain America. They take his presence as a kind of challenge, eager to kick his ass in training in an effort to prove themselves as superior.

Stiles doesn’t really let it bother him. He’d dealt with it back in high school, after all; he’s past that kind of playground bullshit. Someday, he’ll have to work side by side with these people, and that might be a problem, but for now, he lets it wash over him and focuses on training. 

He’s surprised, then, when another recruit – Crawfield – slides into the stool next to Allison.

His arm slips around Allison, squeezing her. “Argent,” he greets. “Nice work on the mat today.”

Allison doesn’t look at him, just spears some broccoli on her fork. “Do you want to keep that arm?” she asks.

“Huh?”

“Move it or lose it,” Stiles suggests.

He lets his arm fall from around her shoulders, but gives an easy grin, unperturbed. He turns his attention to Stiles.

“You’re dating Captain America.”

“Am I?” Stiles replies mildly. “Huh. No one told me.”

“Do you ever train with him?” Crawfield asks. “I mean, the way that guy _moves_ , holy shit.” 

“Sometimes,” Stiles says carefully.

“Do you ever spar with the others?”

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah.”

His eyes go wide. “Seriously? With Black Widow?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “If you’re looking for an autograph, I’m sure she’ll happily sign your cast for you.”

The warning flies straight over Crawfield’s head. “You spar with the _Winter Soldier_?”

“No,” Stiles replies evenly, meeting his gaze. “I spar with Bucky Barnes.”

His face crinkles slightly with confusion. “What?”

Stiles shares a look with Allison, then shrugs, turning his attention to his food. He chews quietly for a few minutes, but Crawfield shows no sign of taking the hint. 

“What do you _want_ , Quincy?” Allison asks.

A brief flash of annoyance flickers over Crawfield’s face at the use of his first name. Even around the others, he insists on being called Quarterback. Stiles decides that telling a twenty seven year old that it’s kind of lame to insist on being called after his position on the high school football team probably isn’t the best way to make friends. 

Crawfield leans forward, voice lowering slightly. “You know Anderson over there?” he says, nodding towards the table to Stiles’s left.

Anderson and the other people seated around the table are watching them closely, making no effort to be discreet, even when Stiles swipes a glance across them before looking back at Crawfield.

“What about him?”

“His sister works for SHIELD. She’s a handler.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “That’s delightful, Crawfield. Forgive me while I try not to jump up and down with joy at that information I clearly so desperately needed.”

He ignores Stiles’s sarcasm. “She says you got taken a few months ago, by _Hydra_. That you fought your way out bare handed. That you killed one of ‘em.”

Allison’s gaze snaps to Stiles, a questioning tilt to her head. Stiles takes a moment, hands curling briefly into fists as he takes a deep breath. He relaxes his fingers slowly, giving Allison a quick shake of his head.

He’s fine.

“Three,” he says. “Two, if we’re being technical. One was an untrained teenager who knocked himself out. And I was armed.” 

“Yeah, but you _killed_ one of them.”

“What’s the big deal, Crawfield?” Stiles bites out. “How many of the people in this room right now are ex Forces, or former private security? I’m not the only one here who’s killed somebody. Not by a long shot.”

“Yeah, but you killed a member of _Hydra_ ,” Crawfield says.

“He wasn’t Hydra, not really,” Stiles replies. “He was just someone with a bit of muscle hired by a guy who didn’t even give a damn about Hydra. He just aligned themselves with them for a bit of power to get what he wanted.”

“Yeah, but _still_.”

Stiles sits back, appetite gone. “Just ask whatever it is that’s bugging you, Crawfield.”

“Is it true they’re training you to be another Captain America?”

A startled bark of laughter bursts out of him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He glances at Allison. “Is that what people are saying?”

“There’s all sorts of rumors flying around,” she replies with a shrug. “None of them factual. Very few of them particularly creative.”

“Yeah, no,” Stiles turns back to Crawfield. “Red, white and blue really aren’t my colors. Besides, even if the serum _could_ be perfectly replicated, which it can’t, it doesn’t mean anything. There’s only one Captain America.”

“But Anderson says -.”

“If Anderson was smart, he’d say a hell of a lot _less_ ,” Stiles cuts in. 

“Yeah, but he says that after Hydra took you -.”

“Barely Hydra. It was a splinter group, mostly amateurs -.”

“You were given a mission. You’re being trained to be a one man army against Hydra.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Stiles replies. “Look, if any of that were true, why the hell would I be here, surrounded by you morons, and getting my ass kicked by Agent May on a regular basis? I’m a recruit, just like you.”

Crawfield sits back, obviously disappointed. “But is it true you’re already going on missions with the Avengers?”

“Oh, that? Yeah, that’s true. Tony Stark created a new plane with an engine system that bends the laws of time and space, so I can go across the world on missions with them and still be back two hours later to be here for training. If you look closely at the footage on the news, you’ll actually see me fighting with them. I’m the invisible one.”

Crawfield gapes. “Holy, shit, really?”

Allison rolls her eyes. “Think about it, Quincy.”

He does, expression pinching for a moment, and then he sighs, pushing back from the table. “Waste of time,” he mutters.

Stiles offers him a lazy salute. “Good talking with you, Crawfield.”

When Crawfield joins the rest of his buddies, catching them up on the information he got from Stiles, Allison meets his gaze, a sliver of concern in her dark eyes.

“You okay?” she asks.

Stiles shrugs. “I’m fine. Let them talk. It doesn’t mean shit.”

Still, he can’t manage to find his hunger again. Sighing, he tosses the remains of his meal in the trash and follows Allison to the elevator.

***

Daisy isn’t alone. 

Stiles and Allison are a little early and they pause in the doorway. The agent is talking to a guy who doesn’t look a day older than eighteen. He’s dressed in similar clothes to the other recruits, but Stiles doesn’t recognize him.

Daisy catches sight of them and waves them in. “Come on in, guys. This is Brad.”

Stiles crosses the room, offering a hand. “Stiles,” he says. “Are you a recruit?”

“Kinda,” Brad replies hesitantly, glancing at Daisy.

“He’s one of mine,” she explains. “If he passes training, he’ll be on my team.”

“You have a team?” Allison asks.

“Secret Warriors,” Daisy says, mouth quirking into a smile. “A team of Inhumans.”

“I feel like the 'secret' part is kinda moot when you tell people,” Stiles offers. He eyes Brad, curious. “What can you do?”

Brad glances at Daisy again and she nods. 

“Go ahead.”

“I can affect another Inhuman’s power,” Brad explains. “I can’t stop it completely, but I can…dampen it, I guess is the easiest way to describe it. Make it less lethal, if needs be.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. “That’s pretty awesome.”

Brad smiles. “What can you do?”

Stiles shrugs. “Me? I can turn into an abominable snowman. It’s more of a winter thing. You know. Seasonal.”

Brad laughs slightly, but Daisy and Allison both roll their eyes. Stiles just grins, clapping Brad briefly on the shoulder.

“Go ahead,” Daisy tells him. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Once Brad’s gone, Stiles turns to Allison. “See, this is what I’m talking about,” he says. “An elite team made up of Inhumans. New York is just crawling with superheroes these days.”

Daisy smiles. “We’re not superheroes. We’re agents. And we’re not planning on stomping all over the Avengers turf, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Worried? Who said anything about worried? I think it’s awesome.”

Her smile widens. “Of course you do.” Then she straightens, rolls out her shoulders, and cracks her knuckles. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

Battle face on, she sits down at a computer terminal. 

Stiles finds it kind of weird that before the whole Hydra-SHIELD incident, the academies for different types of recruits had been so _separate_. Sure, he wants to be an agent, but combat training isn’t the be all and end all of that. Agents have to be able to work their way around a computer in order to gather intelligence or figure out the inner workings of an advanced security system. They have to have a decent knowledge of science and technology in order to go up against the kinds of things they have to fight these days. And then there’s the other stuff, from history to foreign languages to tricking lie detectors, that they have to learn in order to be the kind of person that can change from one cover to another, to mould themselves to fit whatever is needed for each mission.

“We don’t look for people who can fight,” Coulson had said the day he recruited Stiles. “We look for people who can _adapt_.”

Which is why agents are trained to a certain level in all areas. Those wanting to go down the science and tech track, or are looking for an administrative role, still have to have a decent capability in self-defence and some training in being in the field. Agents who are planning to be field operatives will have a higher intensity combat and weapons training, whereas recruits joining the science track will spend more time in the lab, but there’s a lot more intertwining than there used to be.

In Stiles’s humble opinion, it works a lot better.

He does better at the computer stuff, too. In the gym, where around 60% of the other recruits come from a military or combat background, he holds his own, but he doesn’t necessarily excel. But technology?

He’s no Danny, or Tony Stark, but he has an admittedly not great history of hacking into things he’s really not supposed to. Here, he feels like he gets to shine a bit more. 

It’s not unlike college, he thinks. Sure, there’s more violence, bruises and guns, but each training segment just feels like a different lecture. They’re constantly being assessed. If they pass, they get a badge rather than a degree. And Stiles has always been good at working hard. He doesn’t exactly naturally excel, but he’s always had the ability to absorb information, soaking in knowledge, and when he puts his mind to it, he can do well at whatever it is he turns his focus on. SHIELD training is no different in that regard.

What’s better than college, though, is that he gets a basic allowance as a recruit, which is pretty great considering he’d been pretty broke when Coulson asked him to sign up.

Once they’re done, Stiles heads to one of the elevators with Allison and a couple of other agents. It’s quiet as it hurtles them to the surface; Stiles has found that a lot of the mid-level agents tend to keep to themselves since they’re not engaged in recruit training, but they offer polite nods as they step out of the elevator.

Since the base is also SHIELD HQ, and therefore top secret, there’s a lot of security protocols involved in both entering _and_ leaving it. Finally, though, he and Allison are on the road. 

Stiles’s jeep is still back in Beacon Hills; he hates driving in the city, plus his baby is pretty old and not exactly equipped for being used a whole lot these days. Besides, he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of her getting broken into, which is statistically more likely in a large city than in his small hometown, where everyone, including petty criminals, knew that the powder blue jeep belonged to the Sheriff’s son.

So Allison drives, window rolled down a couple of inches, the crisp Fall breeze ruffling her hair. 

Stiles loves Fall. He especially loves it in New York, which experiences the season so richly in comparison to Beacon Hills. He likes the little pockets of Fall lurking between the sprawling mass of concrete, glass and steel; he loves the way the green turns to orange and gold and red, transforming parks, usually a swath of green, into a patchwork of different, bold colors. 

Sure, in the Winter, it’s all ice and snow and sludge, which becomes less of a novelty after a couple of years of living there, but in the Fall, with the cool, crisp air and the smell of damp leaves on the ground, it’s like art.

“Plans today?” Allison asks, cutting into his thoughts.

“Nat wants to spar when I get home,” Stiles replies.

She grins slightly. “I’ll never get used to you calling that tower home,” she says. “I remember when you were just a scruffy grad student living in a mousehole of an apartment.” She slides him a quick, amused glance. “And I definitely don’t think I’ll get used to you calling her ‘Nat’.”

“She hasn’t threatened me for calling her that in at least two months,” Stiles replies smugly. “I knew I’d grow on her.”

“Like a fungus,” she says, dry as dust, and he laughs.

Six months ago, after Stiles’s birthday party, Allison and Natasha had tumbled into bed together. Allison had made it clear a week or so later that it was a one-time kinda thing – she wasn’t in a place to look for anything more, not so soon after ending things with Scott, and Natasha can’t exactly be the most stable of partners given her occupation and history – and Stiles doesn’t know if they ever spend time together outside of the occasional sparring, but he can sense a mutual respect between the two of them.

Natasha likes strong people. Not necessarily people who are strong in combat, either. She’s good friends with Pepper and Jane; in fact, she’s probably closer to them than she is the guys on the team, in a way. She’s softer with them, allows herself to be more relaxed. So of course she respects Allison; she’s one of the strongest people Stiles knows, after all, and not just physically. And Stiles thinks that Allison sees through Natasha more than other people might, catches the nuances that the others can’t quite figure out, the parts of her she keeps heavily guarded most of the time.

He thinks, in another life, the two of them would make a good couple. A terrifying couple, but a solid partnership all the same.

“Wanna join us?” he asks.

Allison shakes her head, her mouth curling into something that’s too bitter to be a smile. “I can’t. Dad wants to have lunch with me.”

He doesn’t really know what to say to that. Allison’s relationship with her family is complicated, and Stiles only knows about half of the reasons why she’s so distant from them these days. 

When they’d been in high school, she’d happily been in her father’s shadow, eager to train with him, to be like him, and now, the two of them barely talk. She speaks to her mother only slightly more.

Stiles gets it, kind of. That kind of hero worship can only ever lead to disappointment. He knows it all too well; he remembers the confusion, the pain, the sense of being suddenly _lost_ the day he realized that his dad, always a hero in his eyes, _still_ a hero in his eyes, is also very, very human.

He doesn’t know what exactly went on. He knows that, after the original SHIELD fell, Allison discovered that her dad’s job as a licensed weapons dealer to the government was mostly a cover, that he and Allison’s mom were actually SHIELD agents, along with her aunt. 

And there’s that. Stiles had only met Kate Argent a couple of times, but both times, he’d seen the absolute adoration and worship on Allison’s face. She’d wanted to grow up to be like her aunt. 

He doesn’t know what happened to Kate, or why Allison never talks about her. He doesn’t want to ask, either. If Allison wants to talk about it, she will, but sometimes, she has other ways of handling things. She has an unsettlingly good ability at compartmentalizing and moving on. 

“Does he know that you’ve joined SHIELD?” he asks carefully.

Allison nods. “I told him.”

“What did he say?”

She pauses, then says, quietly, “He said he was proud of me.”

It sounds like something positive. With anyone else, Stiles would envision a warm, loving father telling his only child how proud he is of them. With Allison, though, he knows better.

Because he hadn’t said it when she graduated high school, even with the year she had to repeat, thanks to being moved around a lot growing up. He hadn’t said it when she’d graduated summa cum laude from college, or when she’d completed her firefighter training. He hadn’t said it when her efforts in saving several people from a burning building had been recognized on the news. 

But he says it now. 

When Allison is following in his footsteps. 

“What did you say to that?” he asks.

“I told him that I’m not doing it to continue his legacy, or to make him proud,” she replies. “That I’m not doing it for him or because of him. I’m doing it for _me_.” 

Stiles reaches out, gently squeezing her knee. “Good,” he says, then adds, softly, “I’m proud of you, you know that, right? I know it doesn’t mean much, but…I am. Super proud.”

Her throat works as she swallows. When she glances at him, her eyes are a little wet, but she doesn’t let the tears fall. “It means a hell of a lot, Stiles,” she tells him. “Thank you.”

He squeezes her knee once more before leaning back in his seat. There’s a beat of silence before he smiles slightly.

“So. How about those Red Sox?”

She laughs, bright and genuine, and Stiles’s own smile widens in response. He can’t do much to help her when it comes to her family. As much as he wishes he could, he can’t ease the pain that’s embedded so deeply in her heart, cutting her every time her family is brought up. He can’t go to this lunch with her as back up. 

But what he _can_ do is make sure she walks into it with the memory of a laugh on her lips.

***

Natasha’s feet slam into Stiles’s chest, knocking him painfully to the ground. She lands on her own back, but flips back to her feet in a flash, resting one foot on his throat, not pressing, just making her point. 

Stiles taps the mat twice and she backs off, rolling her shoulders slightly.

“You’re distracted today,” she observes, falling back into a guard.

“Sorry,” Stiles murmurs, trying to focus more on the fight. God knows he can’t beat Natasha on a good day; right now, with his mind caught on other things, he’s pretty thoroughly getting his ass kicked.

He lifts his leg into a high hook kick, but she drops, his foot swinging over her head as she crouches and swipes her own leg out, toppling him back to the ground. Stiles tucks into a roll that brings him back to his feet, out of reach of the knee aiming for his face. 

Natasha’s so _fast_ ; it’s incredible to watch. When he’s not on the receiving end of it, anyway. She moves so quickly that he doesn’t have time to react before she’s on him, flipping around him until she’s against his back, legs wrapped around his torso. Her elbow slams down into his neck, knocking the breath out of him.

Stiles throws himself back, crushing her into the wall behind them; she grunts, her hold on him relaxing slightly, and he grabs her arm and thigh, dropping his weight forward so he can flip her over his head and onto the floor.

She rolls away from his kick, coming back up onto her feet, and deflects his punch to the side; her fingers curl around his wrist like a vice, wrenching and twisting until it’s bent at an angle just shy of being painful, his body automatically hunching forward, low enough that she can snap her knee upwards into his gut.

His breath explodes out of him in a pained wheeze and she leans in to murmur in his ear.

“What’s got you so distracted?” 

He turns, twisting in her hold. It sends a flash of pain through his elbow and shoulder joint, but it means he’s close enough to land an upward strike to her sternum with his free hand, knocking her back several steps. 

Stomach still protesting, he manages to straighten, blocking her kick. When she tries to get close enough to execute one of her flips, the ones Stiles knows he’ll probably never be able to replicate as gracefully, he shoves her thigh away before she can get a proper lock on his body, then twists to the side, grabbing hold of her arm. He uses it to propel her towards the wall, but she’s already a step ahead of him.

She brings her feet up, using the wall to launch herself into a flip over his shoulder, his hold on her automatically twisting until she can use it to her advantage. As soon as her feet touch the ground again, she pulls, turns, drops her weight forward, and throws him over her shoulder.

He hits the ground face first, old and fresh bruises throbbing at the impact. She doesn’t give him chance to get his breath back; she’s pinning him a second later, easily blocking the sloppy blow he tries to aim backwards at her. Her thighs squeeze around him in warning. 

Stiles taps the mat again, waiting for her to get off him before he rolls over, breathless and sore.

“Allison,” he manages. 

Natasha gets to her feet, looking down at him. She tilts her head slightly. “She okay?”

Stiles hesitates. It’s not really his place to talk about Allison or her family stuff, or why she’s upset. So he just gets back to his feet and says, “She will be.”

Because it’s Allison. She’s got a spine of steel and a heart that’s gentle, that’s full of love, but certainly not fragile. The kind of heart that can crack and bruise, but never break for good.

Of course, if anyone’s going to understand Stiles’s respect for Allison’s privacy, it’s a spy-slash-superhero, so Natasha just nods once. 

“Are _you_ okay?” she asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Just…it’s kind of funny how even in the adult world, certain environments feel just like high school, you know?” 

She tilts her head, gaze cool and assessing. He doesn’t need to tell her what went down with Crawfield today, or about the hostility from the other recruits. Knowing her, she can read all of that and more just from his expression.

And because she’s awesome, she doesn’t offer advice, or sympathy, or encouragement. She just shrugs and says, “You can handle it.”

Stiles smiles and grabs his bottle of water from the bench nearby, taking a few gulps. “I can go another round. You’re winning.”

“Three to zero,” she says, mouth tipping up into a little smirk. “Wanna try and even the score a little?”

“Always.”

This time, she moves faster, hits harder. It should be brutal, except it works; he’s too busy trying to hold his own to let anything else distract him. She gets him on the ground again, thighs around him in a chokehold, but he doesn’t tap out. His adrenaline is really pulsing now, endorphins rushing into his system, and he doesn’t want to give up easily.

He twists, fighting against her hold just enough that he can put momentum into his strike, snapping a hard blow to her peroneal nerve. He feels her leg buckle, her hold going slack as she hisses out a breath, and he grips her knees as he rocks up to his feet, bringing her with him while she’s temporarily immobile, her legs around his shoulders as he raises her up high. And then he throws her, slamming her to the ground.

She manages to fold into a slightly wobbly roll, coming back up onto her feet. He knows the numbness must have worn off already because she gives the slightest wince as she puts weight on her leg. 

“You know,” she says with a smile. “You used to be so sweet. When did you start fighting so mean?”

“About the time you and Bucky taught me how to fight even dirtier,” he replies easily.

She laughs, carefree despite the natural tension in her body as she gears up to attack again. When she runs for him, he dodges her kick and tries for a punch. She grabs his wrist, spinning it away and to the side as she tucks in against his body, back to his chest. Her elbow flies towards his unprotected face.

He manages to move at the last second; he hasn’t got enough room to manoeuvre much, but he manages to duck his head so her elbow glances off his cheek instead of hitting his nose or jaw. 

His teeth snap together and pain flashes across his cheek, ringing through his head. He knows instantly that the bone isn’t broken – she hadn’t put her whole strength into it, knowing a move like that can be dangerous if unchecked – but it instantly starts to throb, burning with the promise of a bruise. 

Before he can shake off the burst of disorientation, she reaches back, grabbing him in a hold as she kicks out his knee, flipping him forwards and into the ground.

Part of him wants to tap out, take a breather, but he smothers it. He rolls to the side and back to his feet, body aching in anticipation of the bruises he’s gonna end up with after this session. 

Natasha laughs. “You’re so stubborn.”

He grins. “I know.”

But getting back up is the easy part. Holding his own against her is nearly impossible, but he does his best. He even manages to get in a couple of blows before she has him in a tight hold, her arm locked around his neck, threatening to squeeze if he tries to move, his arms twisted and pinned behind his back.

“Tap out,” she advises breathlessly.

Stiles wordlessly taps his foot twice on the floor and she lets go, backing up.

“Four to zero,” she says. She even gives him a friendly wink.

“You know,” Clint’s voice reaches them from the doorway. “I can show you how to get out of that hold.”

Stiles doesn’t need to think twice about it. He nods. “Give me like two minutes. I feel like I’ve gone two rounds with the Hulk.”

“You wouldn’t last two rounds with the Hulk,” Natasha replies, smiling. “You wouldn’t last _one_ round.”

“He’d smash you into paste in a second,” Clint agrees. 

“Probably,” Stiles replies. “But you’re not taking into account my secret weapon.”

They share a glance. Natasha asks, “What weapon?” 

Stiles points to his face. “The Bambi eyes.” And he gives them his wide, gentle, terrified look, the one that got him out of a hell of a lot of sticky situations as a teenager. “I don’t even have to fight him. These bad boys will take the rage right out of him.”

Clint snorts with laughter. “Yeah, you keep thinking that, buddy. Those eyes aren’t gonna work on anybody. Except maybe eighty year old grandmas.”

“I _did_ get a lot of candy from the elderly neighbors as a kid,” Stiles replies with a grin. “It helped that I was so scrawny back then.”

Natasha shakes her head, but there’s a smile on her face. 

Stiles drinks some more water, taking the break he needs before he gets back to work. Natasha watches, occasionally offering her own advice, as Clint shows him how to break the hold she’d had him in. 

Once Stiles manages it a few times, Clint nods, apparently satisfied. Then he cracks his knuckles with an obnoxious grin.

“So. Who wants to go a few rounds?” 

Stiles is tired, but he hasn’t exactly got plans for the rest of the afternoon, except missing Steve and maybe bugging Tony. And he likes hanging out with Clint and Natasha.

They used to intimidate him. Hell, Natasha still _does_. But he gets along well with them. They’re friends, as unlikely as he would have thought it to be a few months ago. 

They both have an uncanny ability to wriggle under your skin if you’re not paying attention, making themselves at home. Stiles’s heart doesn’t feel big enough to contain so much fondness for so many people, but, somehow, these assholes managed it. 

When they want to be liked, when they want to be _trusted_ , they sure as hell know how to get it.

They both go about it differently; Natasha in her quiet, sharp way, expressing without words her guarded but genuine affection, and Clint with his obnoxious, in-your-face charm, making it impossible _not_ to like him.

He doesn’t know either of them as well as he does his other friends. He knows he never _will_. But that doesn’t stop him from considering them to be close friends. It doesn’t stop him from trusting them without hesitation. 

For a little while, it had been easy to wonder if they felt the same, or if they were just humouring him. But the subtle, barely there touches from Natasha and the way Clint goes out of his way to help Stiles shows that, in their slightly emotionally repressed way, they do care.

Their friendship is mostly unspoken, but it’s there. 

It’s not often that their schedules allow for the three of them to train together, but they do it when they can. Sometimes, Bucky joins in, or, occasionally, Thor, which is always interesting. 

It varies how they train. Sometimes, they focus on teaching Stiles. Other times, it’s as much of a workout for them as it is him. They switch it up a lot; one session, he’ll be trying to defend himself against both of them, learning how to handle multiple attackers at once, how to anticipate an attack from both sides, and how to take one down fast enough to avoid getting hit by the other.

The next, it’ll be the three of them against each other. That way, he learns what it’s like to fight multiple people at once while in a kind of confusing melee. He learns to use their fight against each other to his advantage; getting hits in while they’re distracted by someone else. He also gets to see their vulnerabilities better; they both know each other’s weak spots with an uncanny precision and Stiles can hang back, watch them expose each other’s weaknesses, and then use it against them. 

And sometimes, he’ll team up with one of them to fight the other. It’s useful to learn how to fight with and alongside another person, to be able to adapt to how they fight and anticipate when they need help, like when he bends forward to avoid Natasha’s strike and lets Clint roll across his back, slamming his foot into Natasha’s gut, or when Natasha swipes Clint’s legs out from underneath him and Stiles is already driving an elbow down into Clint’s back, throwing him to the floor more forcefully.

It also means that he actually has a chance against one of them, since he has someone fighting at his side.

Today, it’s the latter. He and Clint team up against Natasha. Even with the two of them, she’s slippery, clearly enjoying herself despite how focused she is. Stiles and Clint don’t need to speak, just share a look and give a subtle nod in agreement; Stiles will take the lead, tackling Natasha head on, while Clint hangs back, waiting for the right moment.

That moment comes several minutes later; she twists to the side to avoid Stiles’s punch, leaving her chest open to Clint’s side kick. Her body bows slightly as she staggers back, and Stiles gets his arm around her waist and his ankle hooked behind hers, driving her the rest of the way to the floor. He pins her, keeping his hold strong, waiting for several seconds before she rolls her eyes and taps the floor.

He grins, getting to his feet. “That’s one to me.”

“You had help,” she snipes. She shoves lightly at his arm. “We’re done for today.”

He starts to protest. “I can probably go another round -.” 

“You’ve already done too much for today and I’m done humouring you,” she replies, firmly but not unkindly. “If you still need a distraction, go bug Stark.”

He knows she’s right. Between a day of training at SHIELD and his workout with her and Clint, he’s sore and exhausted. He needs to rehydrate, needs food and sleep, despite the endorphins dancing through him, encouraging him to carry on. 

He grabs his towel, wiping the sweat from his face, and drinks some water. For a few minutes, he watches Natasha and Clint continue to spar before he leaves them to it, taking the elevator to his and Steve’s suite.

He takes a much needed shower, feeling a lot better for being clean, but the hot steam makes him feel a little dizzy, reminding him that he needs to refuel. He dries off and dresses in a pair of sweatpants – new ones, but already his favorite, blue with the Captain America shield emblazoned on the pockets – and a long sleeved grey T-shirt. 

He shoves his workout gear into the wash and opens the fridge, eyeing the contents. He’s really starting to ache, and he honestly just wants to order in a pizza and call it a day, but he’s trying to rely less on takeout. For one, it would mean leaving the suite to go down to the lobby and collect it, and he really doesn’t have the energy for even that.

There’s still some leftovers from something Bucky and Steve ate the day before they left for their mission, the same day Stiles went out for burgers with Scott, so he doesn’t really know what it is. It kinda looks like stew and since Bucky made it, not Steve, it’s probably edible. It’s been in the fridge for a while, but when he opens the container and gives it a cautious sniff, it doesn’t immediately make him gag, so it’s probably not going to poison him.

He heats it up in the microwave and cuts a couple of slices of crusty bread to go with it, eating at the breakfast bar. He’d managed to convince Tony to install a dishwasher in the kitchen now he’s staying here pretty much permanently; Steve still washes his dishes in the sink, but Stiles gets to be a little lazy at least.

Once he’s cleaned up, he refills his water bottle. He really wants coffee, or maybe a beer, but after the humiliation of passing out in his second ever training session at SHIELD, he’d learned the hard lesson that hydration is actually pretty important when you’re working out regularly. 

Who knew?

He takes the bottle into the bedroom with him, getting comfy on the bed. The mattress is pretty fucking heavenly already, but he’s learned to take it to even dreamier levels by building a nest with pillows. He arranges them so that when he curls up, back against a mound of pillows, the position actually eases the ache in his muscles. The suite is warm enough that he doesn’t need to use the throw folded on the end of the bed, but he tucks his feet under it anyway, and grabs his tablet from the nightstand.

“Okay, JARV,” he says around a yawn. “Lets learn me some French.”

JARVIS pulls up the language learning program. It’s actually designed by the AI, which is kind of awesome. It’s designed to adapt to his way of learning to make it easier for him, with quick, fun challenges that ensure Stiles doesn’t get bored or lose focus too quickly. It’s brilliant, and Stiles would feel guilty for the AI’s time being taken up on creating something like that, except that it had barely taken JARVIS any time at all.

Plus, he knows JARVIS has designed similar things for the team: an art program on Steve’s tablet that learns his drawing style, replicating it into 3D art, or onto a canvas; a cooking app for Bucky that provides recipes based on what ingredients are actually available and inspired by Bucky’s individual tastes and preferences; even a program for the Hulk if he loses control, providing phrases, music and images that have a high success rate in helping him calm down enough for Bruce to regain control. 

The fact that JARVIS can create all of those things while also helping Tony in the workshop, or speaking to another team member, or playing holographic chess with Stiles, on top of all of his background duties like surveillance, security, and generally keeping the building running…it’s incredible. JARVIS does hundreds of things at once with a smooth ease and it’s remarkable to think about, to even try and wrap his head around how Tony created the AI.

The program opens with a little game designed to help him practise what he’d learned previously. He’s tired, but it’s enjoyable, and he manages to focus. When he mispronounces something, or gets his grammar wrong, the program is smart enough to pick up on even the slightest nuance in his sentences and corrects him. It’s just as good – probably even better – than having an actual face-to-face tutor.

He loses track of time for a while, concentrating on a series of translations that get tougher and tougher. But he does catch the sound of very quiet footsteps coming towards the bedroom.

He knows, logically, that no one who shouldn’t be in the tower could actually get into it, especially in the evening, when the SI floors are empty, the staff having left for the day. It’s probably one of the others; JARVIS hadn’t announced their presence, which he sometimes does because Natasha and Clint like to keep Stiles on his toes, which makes the probability of it being one of those two pretty high.

Still, paranoia and instinct take over. He reaches out, grabbing a picture frame from the nightstand. It’s heavy, with pointy corners; an adequate projectile. 

The person who comes through the door knows him well enough to lift his hands as he appears, ready to duck if needs be. 

“Please don’t throw anything at me,” he says, amusement threading through his voice. “I’ve had a rough few days, so I’d like to avoid a concussion if that’s okay with you.”

Stiles relaxes, placing the frame back on the nightstand. The tablet falls to the bed next to him, forgotten, as he sits up slightly, relief unfurling in his chest.

“Steve,” he says, pleased. “You’re back early.”

“Yeah, we managed to wrap things up sooner than we expected,” Steve replies, dropping his duffel bag onto the floor. 

Stiles holds out his hands. “I missed you,” he says. “An embarrassing amount, actually. It was pretty gross. Very pathetic. I hope you feel sorry for turning me into a besotted idiot.”

“I don’t feel sorry at all,” he replies with a grin, leaving his shoes by the door. He tosses his coat onto the chair by the closet and climbs onto the bed. He brushes a slow, sweet kiss to Stiles’s lips. “I missed you too, by the way.”

Stiles smiles, kissing him back. When Steve pulls back, his thumb finds the bruise that’s blossomed on Stiles’s cheek, touching it so gently it doesn’t even hurt. 

“Did I miss something?” he murmurs.

“Huh? Oh, no, this is from Natasha.”

Steve doesn’t say ‘you should be more careful’ or ‘is she going too hard on you’. He cares for Stiles without coddling him; he trusts that Stiles knows what he’s doing, that Stiles can handle himself, and he’s aware that Stiles can make his own decisions.

It’s one of the thousands of reasons why Stiles loves him so much.

Instead, he brushes a gentle kiss to the bruise and sits back with a yawn. His eyes lower – and then he pauses, gaze stuck on what Stiles is wearing.

“Are those…are those Captain America sweatpants?”

Stiles smiles. “Yep. Do you like them?”

Steve grips where the pants hang low on Stiles’s hips, thumbs rubbing over the shields emblazoned on the pockets. Stiles can feel the heat of Steve’s hands even through the fabric and shivers slightly.

Fuck, but he’s missed him.

He knows that Steve loves it when Stiles wears his shirts, so he’d been curious about how Steve would react to Stiles wearing Captain America themed clothes, the shield emblazoned on him like a claim. He’s definitely not disappointed by Steve’s reaction. 

“I love them,” Steve says, voice lower, a little throaty. “I’m weighing up how tired I am against how badly I want to _show_ you how much I love them.”

Stiles grins, running his fingers through Steve’s hair. “Mm, lucky for you, I’m gonna be the smart one and decide for the both of us. I’m bruised and tired and I want to sleep with you. Literally, I mean.”

Steve smiles, kissing him softly. “Good choice.”

“I’m gonna suck you off in the morning, though. Just so you’re aware. I think I actually missed your dick the most.”

He laughs quietly at that, arm curling around Stiles’s shoulders, tugging him into a hug. He presses a kiss to his temple, just staying there, a warm, solid weight against Stiles before he gets up.

Stiles switches off the tablet and puts it away in the nightstand, then rearranges the pillows. By the time Steve’s showered and ready for bed, Stiles is already curled up underneath the blanket, practically melting into the mattress. Sleep creeps over him, tugging insistently behind his eyes, but he’s not ready to give in just yet.

“So, rough mission, huh?” he says softly once Steve’s in bed. “Wanna talk about it?”

Steve considers. “It was just long and exhausting,” he finally answers. “A few of the agents were undercover, but they got made. It turned into a rescue mission. None of ours died, but. It was rough.”

Stiles watches him for a moment, reading his face. He’s learned to tell the difference between the missions that suck, but Steve will be okay after some rest and means it when he says he’s fine, and the ones that will haunt him, that he’ll twist himself up over, the ones where ‘I’m fine’ means he’s anything but, and Stiles will stay up with him all night, talking to him, because while he can’t make it okay, he can at least make it _better_.

Tonight, it’s the former, so he squirms closer, tucking into Steve’s body. 

“So, hey, question,” he murmurs.

Steve doesn’t really reply, just gives a sleepy sound of encouragement.

“When were you gonna tell me we’re living together?”

“I figured me moving in _was_ me telling you,” Steve replies, amused. 

“Yeah, I usually need something a little more obvious than that, babe.”

Steve laughs slightly. “Me living with you doesn’t make it obvious enough that I’m, you know, _living with you_?”

“I’m oblivious sometimes,” Stiles reminds him. “Although, technically, I think I’m the one living with you, since this is your suite and all.”

“Our suite,” Steve corrects, warmth curling through his voice. “Would it have been more romantic if I gave you a key and asked you to move in?”

“Not really, since there aren’t actually keys to this place. Giving me a slip of paper with the codes on it just doesn’t have the same feel to it.” He nuzzles in, kissing Steve’s jaw. “I prefer your way: wait for me to realize it after four months of already living together.”

Steve’s smile brushes Stiles’s forehead. “I’m glad.”

“So, hey, our suite, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I think we should get a dog together.”

Steve laughs. “Tony has a strict no-pet policy.”

He grumbles. “Buzzkill.”

“You just realized we’re living together,” Steve replies fondly. “One step at a time, okay?”

Stiles gives a sleepy hum in response. 

He feels Steve’s arm tighten around him slightly, warm and comforting, and he sleeps better than he has done all week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: explicit sexual content, violence, knives, stab wounds, blood, description of injury, guns.

The next morning, he makes good on his promise.

He’d learned that Steve fucking _loves_ blowjobs. It’s Stiles’s go to method to turn Steve into a desperate, writhing, _loud_ wreck and he goddamn loves it. He loves each bitten-off gasp and pleading moan, each hoarse repeat of Stiles’s name; he loves it when Steve’s tight leash on his control slips just a little and he tugs at Stiles’s hair, or rips the sheets beneath his hands, his hips rolling up as he fucks Stiles’s mouth. He loves it when Steve comes, breathless, lips parted in pleasure and his body taut and trembling, stomach muscles clenching as he twitches and spills inside Stiles’s mouth. He can’t get enough of it, how intoxicating Steve is like this, how _beautiful_ he is, and all for Stiles.

It’s incredible.

What he especially loves is how Steve equally enjoys returning the favor.

Steve is sinfully good with his mouth. Stiles would be embarrassed at the sounds Steve wrenches out of him, at the way he begs at just the sensation of Steve’s tongue under the head of his cock, except Steve clearly loves it, enjoying the pleasure on Stiles’s face and falling from his lips as much as he enjoys his own.

Basically, when it comes to blowjobs? They’re both _very_ talented.

He focuses on stroking the base of Steve’s cock in rhythm with each bob of his head, letting his tongue trace the hard flesh, then pulls off with a slick, lewd noise, and Steve utters a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and an actual, honest to God _whine_ , the hand in Stiles’s hair trying to encourage him back down.

“Don’t stop,” he says, breathless. 

Stiles’s jaw is aching slightly and his lips feel puffy and damp. He sits back, looking at Steve with a grin. He looks completely wrecked, skin flushed and shining a little with sweat, his plush mouth dark and swollen from kisses, lips parted in pleasure as he gasps for air. He looks at Stiles with a frustrated, hooded gaze. 

Stiles grins. “Patience,” he teases. He reaches out, catching a drop of Steve’s precome on his thumb. Steve’s breath catches, thighs twitching slightly as he watches Stiles lick his thumb clean. 

He moves fast enough that Stiles hasn’t got time to do anything but laugh as he gets grabbed and pushed onto his back. He looks up at Steve with a grin, parting his legs so Steve can slot between his thighs, pressing their bodies together tightly.

He smooths his hands over Steve’s shoulders, drags his nails lightly down his back until he can grab Steve’s ass, squeezing as he pulls their bodies even tighter together, rocking up with a moan.

Steve’s breath catches and he grabs Stiles’s hands, easily pinning them to the pillow above him with one hand. He flexes slightly, testing Steve’s hold, but his grip, while gentle, is like steel. Stiles can’t move his hands at all and it stokes at the arousal in his belly, his cock twitching.

He knows that if he really wanted to get out of Steve’s grip, Steve would let him. Would back off the second Stiles showed any sign of not being into it. But he _loves_ it when Steve brings his super strength to the bedroom. Being pinned and fucked, or unable to touch himself or Steve while Steve slowly unravels him, it’s shatteringly intense.   
Steve’s touch is always gentle, always careful, at odds with the raw, awe inspiring power leashed inside his body. Knowing that Steve could crush steel if he wanted to and having that strength used on him, used to bring him pleasure that he’s never experienced before, it’s so fucking incredible. He’ll never get enough of it.

And he loves finding creative ways to turn it on Steve, too. Tying him with rope, or handcuffs, and testing just how long he can tease and drive Steve crazy before he flexes a little too hard, breaks his restraints so he can grab Stiles into a deep, desperate kiss. Or riding Steve, deliciously slow, and stopping every time Steve reaches for him, or tries to speed the pace up, until he drops his hands back to the mattress and gives in to Stiles. Steve gives up that control happily, loves it when Stiles takes charge just as much as he loves fucking Stiles into a desperate, begging wreck. 

Sex with Steve is _fun_. Sometimes it’s intense; Steve is incredibly intelligent and quick to learn new things, and he’d soon discovered all the ways to bring Stiles to orgasms that shatter him from the inside out, that leave him trembling and blissfully sated. Sometimes it’s hard and fast, quick fucks that leave Stiles feeling wrung out.   
Sometimes it’s slow and gentle, and Stiles has never really thought much about the phrase ‘lovemaking’, but that’s exactly what it is. Sometimes it’s a little kinky – they both like trying new things – and sometimes it’s lazy morning sex, rubbing against each other to slow orgasms that leave them both with sleepy smiles on their faces. Sometimes it’s an all-night thing, Stiles testing just how _super_ Steve’s refractory period is, and sometimes it’s Steve helping Stiles’s mind to slow down so he can relax, or sleep, or focus, taking control and stroking him until everything else fades into the background, burned out by the all-consuming pleasure Steve provides.

But it’s always, _always_ fun. They can tease and laugh and grin and it’s exhilarating. Stiles has never had that before.

His first time with Heather had been an embarrassingly quick, fumbling, awkward encounter that they’d both agreed to never speak of again. Sex with Derek had been intense, raw and rough and so fucking hot that Stiles felt like he was being consumed every time they fucked, but more often than not, it had left him feeling empty. Sex with Malia had been nice, sure; hook ups that got them both off when they needed it, but nothing fulfilling outside of getting an orgasm.

And Jackson…sex with Jackson had always been them pushing each other. Instead of arguing with their words, they’d fought with their bodies instead, wrestling for control, pushing, tormenting, taunting. It had always been taking without giving with Jackson, trying to win even as they shuddered through their orgasms. It had been good, sure, some of the best sex Stiles had ever had, but it hadn’t been _nice_. 

Sex with Steve is different. It’s not just fun. It’s _better_. 

Steve leans down, nipping at Stiles’s bottom lip. He rocks against him, sending sparks of pleasure through Stiles, and they both give a quiet moan, breaths mingling, loud and a little too fast in the quiet of the room.

Steve comes first, pressing his wrecked groan into Stiles’s neck, spilling over Stiles’s cock and belly. Even as he twitches with the aftershocks, he reaches between them, stroking Stiles until he finishes, thighs tensing around Steve and mouth opening in a silent cry as he comes. 

For a few moments, they just stay there, catching their breath, drifting in bliss. Finally, Steve gets up, grabbing wipes from the nightstand. He cleans them both up, tosses the used wipes into the trash, and then cuddles back up, draping an arm over Stiles’s waist. Stiles wraps an arm around him, kissing Steve’s forehead.

“Plans today?” he murmurs.

“Team training later,” Steve replies. “And I was thinking of going for a run this evening.” 

Stiles nods. “A normal run, or a _you_ run? I don’t have anything going on today. I could join you.”

Steve grins. “I can handle taking it slow so you can keep up.”

“Show off,” he grumbles. 

Steve smiles wider, leaning in to kiss him. “Love you.”

*** 

Stiles’s first knife sinks into the target.

He picks up the next one, flipping it slightly as he adjusts his grip on it. They’re specially made, lightweight, balanced and double-edged, ideal for throwing as well as for close combat. He holds the tip, his thumb on one side, all of his fingers save for his pinkie on the other, avoiding the sharpened edges. As he aims, he slightly bends his wrist towards his forearm, calculating the precise angle to get the right speed for the knife to flip. 

He takes a deep breath, and then lets the knife fly, his weight shifting from one leg to the other to create momentum, his wrist straightening at the exact right moment as he throws. 

The knife sticks, dead centre in the target. 

“Good,” Allison praises from a few feet to his left. “You’re getting better at it.”

He smiles, pleased. If he’s honest, knife throwing is probably one of his favorite parts of weapons training. There’s something satisfying about it, about calculating the exact angles and speed, and hitting the target dead on. He’s better with his ICER and it’ll always be his first option but being good with knives is important too. 

He’s seen footage of Natasha taking down targets with a single knife. He knows just how effective they can be.

Allison isn’t using throwing knives. Instead, she’s using her favorite ring daggers, the ones she’d been given as a gift for her seventeenth birthday from her dad.

Her family is weird. Stiles learned years ago that weapons as gifts is normal for Allison. She’d been presented with her first ever bow when she was ten years old.

He watches as she does a neat little flip with them over her fingers, almost too fast for Stiles to track the movement, adjusting her grip on them so she can bring one up, ready to guard her body, and swipes through the gut of one of the training mannequins. 

“Nice,” he comments, watching stuffing spill out to the floor. “You just disembowelled the poor guy.”

She smiles, flipping the daggers again, practising some moves before she sets them aside. She moves to stand next to Stiles, watching as a third, then a fourth knife sinks into the target.

“You need moving targets,” she says after a moment. 

He nods. “Tony’s working on creating more. The Avengers get through them so quickly, though.”

She laughs. Stiles grins back and gathers his knives from the target. When she holds out her hand, he wordlessly passes them to her and sets up a fresh target before he clears out of the way.

The first knife hits the target’s neck. Allison grips the second, adjusting her stance as she aims. 

“Too low,” Bucky says from behind them. “Your aim is a little off. You’ll miss the heart.”

Allison doesn’t look at him as she lets the knife fly. It slams into the target, sinking right into the groin area, and Stiles can’t help but wince slightly.

She turns slightly, raising an eyebrow at Bucky. “Who said anything about the heart?”

Bucky eyes the target before meeting Allison’s gaze. He gives her a slow, deliberate glance over, his mouth curling up into a smile.

“Huh,” he says, then asks, “So, what’s a gal like you doing in a place like this?”

“Leaving,” she replies easily. She turns to Stiles, kissing him on the cheek, and then walks out of the training room. 

Bucky watches her go, blatant interest on his face, and Stiles shakes his head slightly. A few months ago, before Stiles’s birthday party, Allison would definitely have been interested in fooling around with Bucky, but Natasha had got there first. Even though nothing more happened after the one night they spent together, Stiles knows Allison won’t go for Bucky now, since he’s Natasha’s teammate. 

“What kind of lame ass come on was that?” Stiles asks. “I’m pretty sure that pick up line was old when _you_ were young, and that’s really saying something.”

Bucky gives him a sour look. “Hey, I never had any problems with it back then.”

“Well. There _was_ a war on. It’s not like the women had much to choose from.” 

He shoves slightly at Stiles’s shoulder. “Punk.”

Stiles laughs and checks the time. It’s a few minutes past two, which means the rest of the team is due any minute for team training. Instead of using the fitness suite, which is packed with workout equipment, punching bags and a boxing ring, they use a floor that Stiles has only recently been introduced to: the training room. 

It takes up a whole floor of the building. It’s reinforced, with a small area of it dedicated to weapons training. The rest is almost like an arena, complete with various obstacles and props to mimic the kind of environment the team tends to fight in. 

He knows that they have a place upstate, too, rural and larger, with better equipment, challenges and obstacles. They train there regularly, where they can really let go and the Hulk can join in. 

Stiles puts his knives away and heads to one side of the room, safely out of the way of the arena, where there are some benches set up. His tablet is waiting for him and he brings it to life with a touch of his thumb, opening the languages program.

One of the best methods of learning he’s found is reading his favorite books, but in a different language. Not only is it actually fun and enjoyable, but it’s easier to learn and retain, and also to translate, since he’s already familiar with the book itself. He pulls up _Solaris_ , selects Russian, and gets comfortable as he starts to read.

It’s surprisingly easy to concentrate with the sounds of battle around him, more so than in a silent room on his own. He likes company. He especially likes company like this, where there’s no pressure, and no one in his space; he can do his own thing while they’re doing theirs. 

It’s maybe a little weird, learning Russian while the Avengers kick ass across the room, but it works for him. 

Eventually, his attention is caught by the sound of metal hitting metal, loud enough to echo through the whole room, and he glances up.

The team are engaged in one of Tony’s simulated battle programs. JARVIS projects holograms of civilians that need saving, throwing in curve balls every now and then in the form of different obstacles or tighter time restrictions. They’re fighting metal robots, seven feet of gleaming silver metal, each equipped with different weapons. They run on a basic program, adhering to a set amount of battle algorithms, controlled entirely by JARVIS so that the team is kept on their toes by sudden changes in tactics, strength or speed. They’re kind of incredible, but Tony had ensured they were safe; they’re basically just like the target mannequins, except they pose more of a challenge. 

Tony’s pinned to the floor by six of the robots. He fires off repulsor blasts, managing to knock one away from him, but more keep piling on, trying to keep him down. The sound of metal fists hitting the armor is a horrible, grating sound, but Stiles knows they won’t be able to do much damage to the Iron Man suit. 

There’s a loud, mechanical whine and a bright pillar of light strikes upwards: the unibeam. It _obliterates_ the robots, various limbs and chunks of metal showering down onto the floor. Tony gets back into the air, hovering for a second, assessing, and Stiles turns his attention to the others.

Steve throws himself into the air, rolling into a tight flip as he throws his shield, avoiding the net one of the robot shoots at him. The shield slams straight through the robot, slicing it in half, rebounds off the wall, and Steve lands, jumps again, and catches the shield in time to slam it into the face of a robot sneaking up on Bucky. The blow forces the robot into a brick wall – designed to mimic part of a building – and Steve follows, decapitating it with quick, brutal force, the shield hitting the brick with a _clang_ as the robot’s head clatters to the floor.

Bucky uses the strength in his prosthetic to wrench the arm off one robot, then swings the metal appendage into its face, quite literally beating the poor thing with its own limb. He’s innovative like that. He shoots another robot without looking, the bullet striking right at the back of the neck, taking it out. He push kicks one back, into Tony’s line of fire, and grabs another in a choke hold; with a vicious wrench of his metal arm, he twists the robot’s head right off, then throws it to Steve, who catches it and then flings it like a bowling ball into two robots trying to box Natasha in, knocking them into each other with enough force that they crumble to the ground.

Natasha doesn’t even blink, just jumps right over the fallen robots to charge at another. It turns, a fake blade extending from its arm, swinging in an arc towards her. She hits the floor, sliding underneath the arm, and comes back up behind it, leaping onto its back. Her wrists find each side of its neck, Widow Bites crackling, and it falls to its knees, powering down. She propels herself off of its back before it hits the floor, tucking into a somersault, body twisting out of the way of a soft pellet a robot fires at her. She lets one knife fly as she lands; it sinks straight into the robots head. She already has another in her grip as she turns, a length of metal cord, weighted at one end, in her other hand. She flicks the cord out and it whips around the leg of a robot, tightening enough to dent the metal inwards. She pulls, hard, until the robot goes horizontal, and then drives her knife into the back of its neck as it hits the floor face first. 

There’s two more creeping up behind her. She grabs a gun from her thigh holster, starting to turn, but an arrow slams into the chest of each robot. A second later, the arrowheads magnetize and the robots are crunched into each other with enough force to destroy the heads as they knock together. They crumple to the ground, still stuck together.

Hawkeye’s perched on a little balcony, near the ceiling. He lets arrows fly with incredible speed and precision, taking out one robot after another, destroying the ones that are still functional after going toe to toe with either one of the super soldiers. One of the stronger robots spots Clint and it’s in the air a second later, flying for him. Hawkeye doesn’t flinch, just buries an arrow in its chest.

It stops, hovering in the air, pulling the arrow free. It leaves a large hole in the metal, but it hasn’t done much damage to the circuitry. Clint slings his bow onto his back, grabs something from his pocket, and straightens from his crouch, leaping straight off his ledge. He shoves something into the hole in the robots chest, not looking as he reaches out his other hand. Iron Man grabs it a second later, catching Clint out of his freefall and flying him out of range as the EMP goes off inside the robot’s chest. It hits the ground with an explosion of metal.

Tony drops Clint a few feet above the ground, twisting into a tight, hairpin turn so he can give Steve back up against a cluster of robots that have teamed up on him. Clint lands in a roll, getting back to his feet with his bow in his hands, and he slams it into the face of a robot. He traps the leg of another with the bow as it tries to kick him; with a twist and a flip, he crashes the robot to the ground, and stabs an arrow into its neck joint before it can recover. He ends up almost back to back with Bucky, firing off arrows as Bucky picks robots off with two guns, kicking the ones that get too close. 

Steve’s still demolishing the robots with his bare hands. When Tony fires a repulsor at the shield, Steve angles it so the beam bounces off it, taking down three enemies at once. Iron Man glides back into the air, picking off the robots that can fly, offering aerial support to the team, able to see the ones that have long range weapons and take them out before they can land a shot. Steve cuts his way through enemies with his shield, fast, brutal and tactical, cleverly herding three robots into just the right position so that when one fires an electrified net, he can duck and it captures the two enemies behind him instead. Before the third can fire another net, he jumps onto the hood of a car frame, then leaps into the air, bringing the shield down into the robot’s head. 

It’s incredible to watch. Stiles will never get used to it. He doesn’t think he’ll ever take for granted the fact that he _can_ watch. He’s seen the team bicker and squabble and, sometimes, have genuine arguments that leave an unsettling tension for hours, or even days. But here, on the battlefield, they work perfectly together, like a well-oiled machine. It’s almost fluid, a practised dance of sorts, knowing one another’s strengths and weaknesses so they can provide back up, or combine skills into a deadly take down. Their varied abilities come together to create the ideal team, slick and balanced, communicating just as well with their bodies as they do over the comms. 

It would be even more interesting to observe if Thor and Hulk were here, but Thor’s off world, and Hulk doesn’t train in the tower. Despite the arena’s size, it’s still too contained a space for him. At the training compound upstate, where there’s a range of different arenas – including outdoor ones – he can get involved and smash to his heart’s content.

Finally, the last robot goes down. Steve catches his shield as it completes an arc, cutting down three enemies as it spins back towards him. He pauses, making sure that there aren’t any more robots, before he straightens, lowering the shield slightly. Tony drops to his feet next to him, the armor’s faceplate snapping up.

“J,” he says. “Time?”

“Thirty seven minutes and twelve seconds, sir,” the AI replies, voice filling the arena. “I’m pleased to inform you that you’ve managed an improvement of two minutes on your previous time.”

“Sweet.” Tony taps his fist against Clint’s, then looks at the aftermath, taking in the sight of dismembered robots. He sighs. “Hey, J, we got anymore in storage?” When the AI tells him that this batch was the last of them, he mutters a curse. “Alright, guess I’m fixing these ones, then.”

Steve claps him on the back. “Thanks, Tony.”

He’s still slightly breathless. He looks exhilarated, the way he always does after training or a battle. He catches Stiles’s gaze and grins, heading over. 

“Hey,” Stiles says. “Tony killed more bad guys than you.”

“Maybe,” Steve replies. “But I took them down with more style, didn’t I?”

“Always.” Stiles stands, running a hand over the smooth curve of the shield before he leans in, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s mouth. “I’m very impressed. Want me to show you just how much?”

“Still here,” Clint says, twisting the cap off a bottle of water. “Still very much here, guys.”

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “How’s Allison?” he asks Stiles.

He nods. “Good. She says my aim is improving with the knife training, so that’s good.” 

“And the Russian?” Natasha asks, gesturing slightly to the tablet on the bench.

“Terrible.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

“Uh, excuse you, I’m trying plenty. Russian is a hard language to learn, okay? I know it’s your native language, but who else except you and Bucky speak it?”

To his surprise, they all raise their hands. Including Steve, who offers a sheepish smile when Stiles gives him a betrayed look. 

“You _all_ know Russian?” he says. “What the hell.” 

“I picked some up during the war,” Steve explains. “And I learned properly when, uh…” he glances at Bucky, trailing off, and that alone is answer enough. 

“Former spy,” Clint adds lazily. “Had to learn.”

Stiles turns his gaze to Tony, who just shrugs.

“I was eight, a genius, the son of a rich man, and bored to tears at boarding school,” he says. “And it pissed off my parents, who wanted me to learn French. Better for business.”

“You _do_ speak French,” Natasha points out.

“Yeah, but I never told _them_ that.”

She rolls her eyes. “You learned a whole language to spite your parents. And then pretended you didn’t know an entire _other_ language to spite them even more. Why does that not surprise me?”

Tony just grins. “Because you know me so well?” he offers.

“Everyone knows Russian but me,” Stiles says. “I suck at learning languages.”

Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders. “I can help you.”

That perks Stiles up a bit and he smiles as they head for the doors. “We could come up with a reward system.”

***

Stiles fires off three quick shots, then lowers the Glock 19.

His final target rattles towards him, showing a neat, tight triangle of bullet holes right over where the heart would be. He removes the ammo from the gun and places it back on the weapons rack before sitting down in the observation room. Lowell takes his place on the firing range, selecting an FNX-45 Tactical. He turns to give the rest of the recruits a smarmy wink before he starts firing at his own set of targets.

Stiles catches Allison’s gaze. She rolls her eyes and he grins slightly.

“ _Hail Hydra_.”

The words are a mocking hiss and Stiles tenses, fingers curling around the edge of the metal bench he’s sat on. He looks to his left, but the words weren’t aimed at him: Crawfield’s got a nasty smile on his face as he leans in, gaze focused on the recruit sat in front of him.

Stiles can’t remember her name. She’s older than him, maybe in her early thirties, with long brown hair and blue eyes. She keeps to herself, mostly; she seems quiet and shy. But Stiles has noticed that look on her face sometimes during training, that sharpness in her gaze that reminds him of Natasha; she’s _watching_ , observing, taking in everything. Despite her tendency to be kinda withdrawn, she’s pretty damn good at both hand to hand combat and weapons training, but Stiles thinks she goes unnoticed a lot by the other recruits because she’s so quiet.

She doesn’t turn at the sound of Crawfield’s harsh whisper, but she does tense, her hands curling into fists on her lap.

“Crawfield,” Jones rebukes. 

“What, did I hit a nerve?” he replies. “I thought that’s what they said. Hail Hydra, right?”

The recruit still doesn’t look at him, but she says, voice tight, “I’m not Hydra.”

“Oh, come on. How could you not _know_?” Crawfield kicks the back of her bench slightly. “I can’t believe they let you onto the training program.”

She does turn then and Stiles catches the expression on her face before she tries to smooth it out, tries to look unbothered by Crawfield’s comments. She looks haunted, angry and sad and lost all at once at the mere mention of Hydra, and it’s like an echo of the expression Stiles has seen on Steve’s face too many times. 

He doesn’t realize he’s on his feet until several gazes swing to him. Crawfield leans back, raising an eyebrow.

“Problem, Stilinski?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I was just wondering if you want a juice pack.”

Crawfield’s brow furrows. “Huh?”

“A juice pack, some crayons, maybe a nap?” Stiles suggests. “I mean, if you’re gonna act like a goddamn kindergartener, then I figure we should treat you like one.”

A surprised bark of laughter escapes Jones and she quickly smothers it with her hand, but her dark eyes shine with amusement. Crawfield straightens, jaw tightening in anger. He starts to get up and, silently, Allison stands as well.

“This isn’t a playground, Quincy,” Stiles continues. “You’re a fucking adult, as much as you seem to think you’re still the high school _quarterback_ ,” he sneers Crawfield’s nickname, satisfied when the asshole’s face goes red. “This is life and death. So why don’t you try and grow up a bit.”

Crawfield crowds into Stiles’s space, but he pauses when Allison steps up to Stiles’s side, her expression calm, almost pleasant.

“Of course,” she says coolly, “if you have any doubts about Director Coulson’s judgement regarding recruits, I’m certain you can take it up with him. I bet he’d love to put your mind at rest.”

Crawfield blanches at that. “Her fucking fiancée was _Hydra_ ,” he says, jabbing a finger in the recruit’s direction.

The door opens. Lowell steps inside, followed by Agent Mackenzie. He folds his arms as he takes in the scene.

“Is there a problem here?” he asks.

And just like kids caught in a playground scuffle, they all shake their heads. Agent Mackenzie doesn’t look impressed, but he doesn’t comment anymore on the obvious tension in the room. 

Stiles sits back down. He catches the brunette’s gaze and offers a little shrug. She doesn’t smile, just looks at him for a moment, as if she’s trying to get a read on him. Then she turns away, focusing on watching Jones take out targets on the range, but her shoulders are loose and she looks more at ease.

Later, as they leave the room, Stiles catches up to her. 

“You know,” he says, pitching his voice low so they’re not overheard. “If you spoke to Director Coulson, Crawfield’s ass would be out of here in a heartbeat. This isn’t school, or an academy, or a game. Someone like that, who antagonizes the people he has to work with…he’s not the kind of person who belongs with SHIELD. He’s too immature to go out in the field.”

She looks at him for a long moment. “I know,” she replies. Her mouth curls into a tiny smile. “But then I wouldn’t get to kick his ass next time we’re on the mat, and where’s the fun in that?”

He laughs and her smile widens, softens her whole face into something warmer, a little more approachable. There’s a scar on her throat, a pale, thin line across her neck, only visible when it catches the light. 

“I’m Stiles,” he offers.

“I know. The others talk about you a lot.”

That’s unsurprising. “Anything flattering?”

“Rarely,” she replies dryly. She starts to walk away, but glances over her shoulder as she adds, “I’m Joanna.”

Allison falls into step next to Stiles, a smile on her face. “I like her.”

***

Lowell’s foot strikes Stiles’s chest, pushing him back several steps.

Stiles takes a breath, rubbing at where his sternum aches from the blow, pacing slightly on the mat. Lowell matches him, circling slowly, expression blank but grey eyes sharp.   
Unlike Crawfield, who’s got a hell of a lot of physical strength but relies on it way too much, Lowell is smart and calculated as well as a giant dick. He’s taller than Stiles and only slightly bulkier and he’s very, very good at hand to hand combat. He knows better than to rush in and try and overwhelm Stiles; instead, he waits, patient, watching, _observing_. 

When Lowell strikes again, Stiles shifts to the side to avoid the punch, slamming the side of his hand into Lowell’s throat as he circles behind him. He kicks the back of his thigh and Lowell’s leg wobbles; he staggers forward but regains his balance, twisting out of range of Stiles’s second kick. 

He’s fast. Annoyingly fast. He rocks back, avoiding Stiles’s palm strike, and does a neat flip out of the way of a spinning roundhouse. And then he charges, launching into a side flip with a tight twist, one leg extending back; his foot hits Stiles in the face, slamming him to the floor.

The bruise on Stiles’s cheek throbs with fresh pain. He opens his eyes, disorientated for a split second, and sees a foot heading straight for his head. He rolls to the side into a crouch and then sweeps Lowell’s leg out from under him. He flips backwards so he’s out of range as he gets back to his feet. 

“You good, Stilinski?” Agent Morse calls.

Stiles tests his jaw slightly. It aches, but Lowell had pulled the kick. He’s a jerk, sure, but he’s not a reckless asshole like Crawfield. He’s aiming to show off and beat Stiles, but he knows better than to cause actual damage to another recruit. 

He gives a sharp nod and ducks underneath Lowell’s punch, twisting to avoid the haymaker he throws with his other arm. Lowell knows when to hang back and when to go in with full force, keeping Stiles on his toes. His fighting style switches a lot, showing both his skill in krav maga and Brazilian jiu-jitsu, and his training in MCMAP, and he mixes it up to make it hard for Stiles to guess his next move.

Stiles holds back, avoiding and deflecting blows, dancing back out of range as he watches Lowell closely. He doesn’t push forward with the rapid, brutal force that Bucky often favors in hand to hand combat; instead, he tracks the way Lowell fights, taking note of which fighting style he appears the most comfortable in. He’s a little weaker on his right leg – there’s a scar there, only partially visible underneath his gym shorts – and he puts his weight on his left leg to compensate for it when he turns or kicks. 

When Lowell brings his knee up, towards Stiles’s groin, he turns, punching him hard in his right thigh. When his leg drops and he staggers, Stiles kicks his left knee, bringing him to the mat. Lowell’s mouth tightens and his glare is cutting as he gets back to his feet, limping for a second until he regains his composure. 

He hits a little harder after that, forcing forward, blows coming quick and ruthless, trying to overwhelm Stiles. For a minute, he manages to keep deflecting or avoiding them, but his own strikes are equally ineffective. The flip comes out of nowhere; his arm twists and Lowell throws him. 

Stiles lands on his back on the mat, wincing. He looks up at Lowell, breathless, and the fucker smirks down at him.

“You weren’t expecting that, huh?”

Stiles bites back a response before it trips off his tongue, instead climbing back to his feet. He concentrates less on deflecting the blows now, switching tactics so he rolls with the strokes, body moving to limit their effectiveness and using the momentum to deliver his own attack. Lowell keeps up the rapid, brutal effort, but tires quickly, and Stiles manages to get him into a tight hold, flipping them both to the floor. His legs lock around him, pinning him, Lowell’s arm pulled taut across Stiles’s chest, hooked under one knee. With a little pressure, he could snap Lowell’s arm, but he doesn’t, just waits for Lowell to realize he’s not getting out of the hold. 

Grunting, Lowell manages to tap the mat twice with his foot. 

Stiles releases him, rolling back to his feet. 

“Your boyfriend teach you that?” Crawfield taunts from several feet to their right. There’s a slight sneer on his face, voice catching on the word 'boyfriend' with barely concealed disgust, and Stiles pauses, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah, he did, actually,” he replies, smiling because it is actually _true_ , as well as a way to get under Crawfield’s skin. “Right before fucking me there and then on the mat.”

Red crawls up Crawfield’s face, upper lip curling, and he’s distracted enough that he’s completely forgotten his own sparring partner. Joanna jumps onto his back, body flipping around his until she gets her thighs around his neck, and then she drops, bringing him to the floor _hard_. Before he can recover, her knee presses carefully to his throat, forcing him to tap out.

Stiles crouches down, voice pitched low and soft so only Crawfield can hear him when he says, “Did your brother teach you that?”

The blow hits it’s mark, dead centre in the middle of Crawfield’s carefully buried tangle of family issues and brother rivalry; Crawfield goes pale and still, but fury turns his eyes cold as he glares at Stiles. For a second, Stiles wonders if he’s gone too far, but he’s never had any time for bigots, and he’s not shouting out Crawfield’s issues in front of everyone. And for once, Crawfield actually shuts up, though the rage is still there, simmering under the surface.

Joanna gets to her feet, giving Stiles an appraising look, but she doesn’t say anything. Agent Morse is watching them closely from across the room, but no one else is paying attention, too busy sparring. Only Allison spares them a glance, but once she sees Crawfield down and Stiles getting back to his feet with a satisfied expression, she turns her attention back to Jones.

“Alright,” Stiles says, turning back to Lowell. “Ready to go again?”

Lowell just shifts into a guard, knuckles cracking as he curls his hands into fists, and Stiles bites back a snort of laughter.

“That’s so gross,” he mutters.

***

By the time he leaves the base, dusk is settling over the city. Stiles tucks his hands in his pockets and starts to walk to the nearest subway station, watching the sky as the setting sun paints it in shades of red, gold and purple. 

Dead, brown leaves skitter across the sidewalk, the crisp breeze sweeping them down the steps to the subway station as Stiles makes his way down them. He almost misses the train and has to sprint across the platform, jumping through the doors just a second before they close.

He finds a seat and settles in it, tucking chilled fingers into the pockets of his jacket. 

He really needs to invest in a motorcycle or something.

Tired, he leans his head against the window, closing his eyes. The coldness seeps off the glass and into his skin, keeping him awake as the train rattles towards the next stop. It reminds Stiles of law school, taking the subway after a long evening of studying in the library, cold and exhausted and ready for a hot drink before bed. 

For a second, he’s that guy again, wearing the itchy, woollen fingerless gloves that Isaac knitted for him to ward off the harsh cold, knee bouncing up and down despite his exhaustion. He’s always found it difficult to stay still; he’s getting better at it, thanks to his training, but when he forgets himself, he lapses into fidgeting. 

They reach the next station. The doors slide open, letting in a fresh burst of chilly air before they close again. 

The train hadn’t been full when Stiles boarded, but there’d been enough people for the murmur of voices and shuffle of movement to be audible over the noise of the train’s wheels on the track.

Now, though, it suddenly goes silent.

Stiles opens his eyes without lifting his head, giving a quick sweep of his surroundings. Everyone is staring towards the nearest set of doors, tension threading through the confined space. 

The group of men – seven of them – move away from the doors, boots thudding heavily on the floor. They’re all dressed in scruffy cargo pants and black hoodies, a patch sewn onto the bicep bearing a symbol, two silver daggers crossed over each other with a solid red snake coiled around the blades, tongue flicked out in an angry hiss. Their hoods are pulled up, tucked over baseball caps bearing the same logo, and they’re wearing masks that look similar to white hockey masks, except they’ve been painted with ugly, too-wide, snarling grins, each one with a different symbol on the cheek: Iron Man’s helmet, Captain America’s shield, Thor’s hammer, Hawkeye’s bow and arrow, Hulk’s green fist, a red star in a silver circle for Bucky Barnes, even the black and red symbol Black Widow’s known for. 

Stiles gets the impression the symbols are ironic, since these guys really don’t look like superhero fans.

Two of them sit on the opposite side of the train to Stiles. One sits in the empty seat to his right, another leans against the pole near the doors to his left, a fifth blocking the way further down the train. The last two stand in the middle of the carriage, effectively blocking Stiles in to a small, cramped space. 

One of them, the one with Thor’s hammer, reaches into his hoodie, withdrawing a knife. The other, his mask bearing Steve’s shield, tugs a phone out of his pocket. He presses a button, holding it up to video Stiles’s face before turning it so his mask can sneer at the camera.

“This is for the Avengers,” he says, voice muffled by his mask. “Viper is coming for all of you. And we’re gonna show you just what happens to the people dumb enough to fuck you freaks.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Who are you calling a freak, buddy? I’ve seen middle school cheerleading squads with better co-ordinated outfits than you.”

Captain Fuckface shoves the camera to the guy next to him, barking out an order to keep recording. He pulls his own knife out of his hoodie, flipping it across gloved fingers.   
The other passengers are making noise, scrambling further down the train, as far away from the gang of men as possible. Stiles is relieved to see the men let them go, clearly not interested in anyone but him; it means everyone else is safe and, just as importantly, out of the way.

“You sure you wanna do this, big guy?” he asks Captain. “The next stop is coming up. Feel free to get off.”

A fist arcs towards his face. Stiles ducks to the side, into the guy sitting next to him; he slams an elbow back, into the man’s face, breaking his nose as he kicks out with his foot, sending the knife flying from Captain’s grip. 

He kicks again, shoving Captain across the train. He sprawls across the seats and Stiles gets to his feet, twisting to avoid Hulk’s punch. He spins into a jumping back kick, sending Hulk flying into Hawkeye, and they both go down. Winter Soldier deflects Stiles’s punch with his elbow, his other hand slashing out with a knife; Stiles rolls back, the blade slicing through his shirt instead of the skin of his stomach. He catches the asshole’s wrist, twisting his arm, and pulls it down across his knee; the guy screams as his arm breaks and the knife slips from his grip. Stiles grabs his neck, throwing him to the floor. 

Widow throws his knife; Stiles twists to the side and the blade sinks into one of the empty seats instead. He uses one of the poles to swing his body as he brings his legs up, slamming his feet into Widow’s chest. 

He lands, starts to turn – 

At first, it feels like a punch, but a lot harder and a lot more painful, the force of it knocking Stiles back a step as he cries out. Then the burning starts and he feels blood, and adrenaline rockets through him when he realizes he’s been stabbed.

The knife is still in his arm. It’s a small pen knife, biting into the meat of his bicep, and Stiles grits his teeth as he pulls it out. He does a flip with it to adjust his grip on the handle, his own blood seeping into the grey wool of his gloves as he shifts into a guard, the knife held outwards from his body.

Iron Man hesitates for a second. Behind him, Widow is on his feet, mask split slightly from the force of Stiles’s elbow, blood seeping through the crack from his broken nose. Bolstered by the back-up, Iron Man feints to the left before aiming a punch at Stiles’s face.

Stiles uses his forearm to block the blow, pushing Iron Man’s arm out wide as he twists, stepping in until his back is against Iron Man’s chest; his other hand cuts downwards, embedding the pen knife into the fucker’s thigh. He shouts out in pain, reaching a shrill note as Stiles twists _hard_ on the knife, and then reaches behind him, getting a grip on Iron Man; he drops, throwing the man over his head and into Hulk, who’s back on his feet and running towards Stiles. The two of them topple to the floor, Hulk pinned under Iron Man’s weight, who is too busy shouting in pain and clutching at his bleeding leg to move. 

Behind him, Stiles hears Widow’s boots as he rushes him and throws himself forward into a roll, avoiding the brutal side kick aimed at his head. He comes back up facing Widow, blocking a punch with his elbow and slamming his own fist into the other man’s side. The blow knocks the wind out of Widow, body bowing back slightly, and Stiles follows it with another punch to the same area, and then a strike with his palm, finishing by driving his knee up, breaking two of Widow’s ribs. He kicks his leg out and brings an elbow down into Widow’s back, forcing him to the floor. 

Hulk is struggling to get out from underneath Iron Man. Stiles knocks him out with a quick kick and yanks the knife out of Iron Man’s leg, ignoring his roar of fresh pain. The blade hadn’t nicked anything serious, but the wound is enough to keep the asshole down and hurt like hell. 

Captain and Hawkeye are both back on their feet, creeping towards Stiles on each sides, trying to box him in. Stiles lets the knife in his hand fly; it sinks into Captain’s shoulder and pushes him back into the seats, and Stiles turns into a jumping side kick that knocks Hawkeye on his ass. Despite his bulky build, he rolls back, popping back up on to his feet, but Stiles is already crowding in, and his fist lands a hard blow to the guy’s chest. His breath wheezes behind the mask, body hunching slightly, enough for Stiles to drive his knee up into his gut. Another pained, breathless gasp and Stiles doesn’t let him recover; he grabs the back of Hawkeye’s hood, using it to slam his head down onto Stiles’s knee. He collapses on the floor, unconscious, and Stiles turns back to Captain.

The leader is on his knees, one hand pressed to the wound in his shoulder, wobbling slightly, unbalanced from pain. Stiles crosses the space between them and reaches out, grabbing the mask. With a hard yank, it comes off, exposing the face underneath.

He looks to be in his early twenties, with brown eyes and long, dirty blond hair. He sneers up at Stiles, showing off a cracked front tooth, and there’s a disgusting, explicit tattoo of Black Widow on his neck. 

A punch to his temple knocks him out cold, body slumping against the seats, and Stiles turns his attention to Thor. The guy is still filming, eyes wide behind his mask, and he stumbles back a step when Stiles approaches.

“I’m – I’m just the camera guy!” he stutters, voice breaking slightly. “Tommy – Tommy said I just had to record it, I swear!”

He sounds young, practically prepubescent. 

“Tommy?” Stiles asks.

His hand twitches towards Captain’s prone body. “My, uh, my brother. He said…he said we were just gonna scare you a little, nothing serious, I swear, I didn’t…” he trails off. 

“Yeah, the knives definitely don’t seem _serious_ ,” Stiles mutters. He reaches out, snatching the phone out of Thor’s hand, glancing at it. The recording is live, streaming to various platforms, and he pulls a face, dropping the phone to the ground. He brings his foot down onto it, cracking the screen, pushing down until the slim device breaks altogether.

The kid holds his hands up, but Stiles leaves him be. He’s not a threat, just the dumb, easily lead brother of an asshole. Stiles casts a look around, taking in the faces of the other passengers, and the adrenaline crashes out of him, leaving him feeling woozy and weak-kneed.

He staggers back until he can fall into a seat, lifting a hand to the wound in his arm. It’s really starting to hurt, sharp and intense enough to steal his breath, and even though it’s not deep, blood is soaking into Stiles’s jacket. He puts pressure on the injury to try and stem the bleeding as he leans back, feeling sick.

The train jolts to a stop and the doors slide open, police officers swarming in off the platform. Their guns are raised and they take in the sight of the unconscious men on the floor before turning to Stiles.

He lifts his hands, one slick with his own blood. “I’m unarmed,” he promises. 

Two of the cops arrest Thor. Another approaches Stiles with handcuffs, but his buddy holds out a hand, tapping him on the chest.

“Hey,” he says. “Isn’t that Captain America’s, uh, partner?”

Stiles nods. “Stiles Stilinski,” he manages. He thinks past the dizziness. “Uh, if you call -.”

“I could give a damn who he is,” the other officer cuts in. “Until we know exactly what the hell happened here, he’s going in the cuffs. He could be a threat.”

“Okay, I’m fine with that, but could we maybe swing by a hospital? I’m sort of bleeding a bit. Maybe a lot. I kind of got stabbed a little bit.”

He’s hauled to his feet, arms pulled behind his back, and he hisses out a breath as his injury _burns_ , skin wrenched painfully as he’s handcuffed. 

“I’m fuckin’ sick of vigilantes,” the cop mutters behind him.

“Woah, hey, excuse you, but I was _defending_ myself here. I’m not a vigilante.” 

He’s ignored and lead off the train. There’s a crowd gathered on the platform, but more officers are keeping them back. Still, Stiles can see the flash of cameras going off and winces. 

_This is gonna be super bad for the Avengers’ PR_ , he thinks.

It’s dark when they exit the station. The chill in the air is now biting, seeping through Stiles’s jacket and stinging the wound in his arm. The hand on his back pushes him towards a waiting squad car, but a familiar voice rings out from Stiles’s left.

“Excuse me, officer, but I’m going to need you to uncuff my agent.”

Stiles looks at Coulson, offering a sheepish expression. The Director’s expression is pleasant, but he’s backed by Agents May and Mackenzie as he pushes past the barrier keeping people away from the station. 

“He was involved in a knife fight on a train,” the cop bites out. “We need to question him.”

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” Coulson replies, still with that polite, mild tone. He opens his badge, showing it to the officer. “Mr Stilinski is one of mine. We’ve already seen the footage and he was acting purely in self-defence. I’d appreciate it if you would uncuff him.”

The handcuffs snap free of Stiles’s wrists. He holds his arm carefully to his side as he moves to stand next to Coulson. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so relieved to see the man. When he sways slightly, a little woozy, Agent Mackenzie places a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“The other men you arrested will be coming with us, too,” Coulson adds.

The cop’s face goes red. “You can’t do that,” he snaps. “This isn’t your -.”

“Jurisdiction?” Coulson finishes. “Actually, it is. After all, a member of my organization was the target and the message was meant for the Avengers. SHIELD will be taking over.”  
Agent Mackenzie leads Stiles away as the officer keeps trying to argue with Coulson. Piper and her team head into the station to collect the masked assholes, but Mack just helps Stiles into the back of a SHIELD van. There’s a medic waiting for him. She gives him a warm, reassuring smile.

“Nice work, beanpole,” Mack says, sitting down next to him.

“ _Beanpole_?” Stiles repeats incredulously. 

The agent just smirks and turns his attention to the tablet in his hands. The medic helps Stiles to remove his jacket and shirt and he winces at the amount of blood. The sight of the wound makes him feel a little nauseous, so he looks away as she starts to carefully examine it.

Footsteps sprint towards the van, slowing down as whoever it is gets nearer, and then Steve is there, dressed in the clothes he wears to go jogging, a frown on his face. It relaxes slightly when he sees Stiles.

“Heard you landed yourself in some trouble,” he says, climbing into the van. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Hey,” Stiles grouches. “It wasn’t my fault. They ganged up on me.”

“I know. Tony sent me a link to the video, I watched it on my way here. Are you okay?”

“Well. I kind of got stabbed, a little bit.”

Steve’s mouth twitches slightly. “Just a little bit?”

“Tiny bit. No big deal.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling, and he wordlessly takes Stiles’s hand when the medic finishes cleaning up the wound. She injects the area with anaesthetic and then gets to work sewing him up. It doesn’t hurt, but the tugging sensation is kind of unpleasant, and Stiles determinedly doesn’t look, instead gazing at Steve.

“I mean, I’ll have a scar,” he offers cheerfully. “That’s pretty badass. I can tell people some cool story, like I got into a bar fight or something.”

“A train fight isn’t cool enough for you?” Steve asks, amused.

“There’s just something about fighting in a bar,” he replies. “I mean, you’ve got pool sticks, bar stools, plenty of booze, and jukebox music that, somehow, always fits the fight perfectly.”

“You’ve seen too many movies.” 

Stiles grins, finally looking at his arm when the medic finishes the stitches. She’s cleaned up most of the blood and the wound looks pretty small now, just a neat little line of stitches. She places a bandage over it and sits back, peeling off her gloves.

“Don’t get it wet for forty eight hours, then you can gently wash the area and change the bandage. The stitches will dissolve on their own after a couple of weeks, but watch out for infection,” she rattles off, handing him a little box of painkillers. 

Stiles tucks the box into the pocket of his jeans. “Thanks.”

“Do you guys need a ride?” Mack asks, smiling at Stiles’s surprised expression. “Coulson said your report can wait until tomorrow, since you kind of got stabbed and all. Besides, we have the video. We’d just need you to confirm a few things in your own words for the record.”

Stiles nods, relieved. He glances at Steve. “You ran here, right?”

“Yeah. But our ride just arrived.” He gives Mack a handshake. “Thanks.”

Stiles climbs out of the van. He feels tired and still kind of lightheaded. Steve plants a warm hand on his back as they walk, leading him to a flashy car parked down the block. Natasha’s behind the wheel and she raises an eyebrow at Stiles as he climbs into the back seat.

“I hear you got yourself stabbed,” she says, not hiding her disapproval.

“Six guys, Natasha,” he replies. “With knives. _Six_.”

“Exactly. It should have been a cakewalk.”

He gives a little grumble at that, leaning into Steve’s side as she sets off. The interior of the car is warm and the engine is quiet and smooth; it starts to lull him to sleep, exhaustion replacing the rush of adrenaline he’d had earlier, but he forces himself to stay awake.

“So, Viper,” he murmurs. “Any idea who they are?”

“No,” Natasha replies. “Stark will do a sweep for data, see if anything crops up, but they’re not a group I’ve ever come across, and they haven’t targeted the Avengers before now.”

“They really don’t seem to like you guys.”

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “They really don’t,” she agrees.

“Any ideas as to why?” he asks.

“Nope,” she says, glancing at him in the mirror, lips curling slightly. “But after this? We’re going to give them one.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: canon-typical violence in the form of sparring, explicit sexual content.

Tony’s the last one to arrive on the communal floor.

He’s wearing a suit, a mug of coffee cradled in one hand, but he ditches the jacket and tie and loosens a couple of buttons on his shirt before joining them in the sunken seating area. 

“So,” he says, setting his mug down on the table. “Viper. J, show us what you’ve got.”

A holographic screen fills the air above the table. Footage starts flickering across it, showing various pieces of graffiti, the Viper’s symbol painted on different walls and buildings. There’s a grainy video of some people protesting outside the Avengers tower, zooming in on a couple of signs featuring the same logo. More videos uploaded to different platforms of people in the same hoodies and masks, ranting about the Avengers and other superheroes. 

 

“They’re a relatively small fringe group,” Natasha says. “Mostly, they post videos to Youtube, usually with the same speech about Earth belonging to humans, how superheroes are a disease, how we need to be wiped out. A few members tried to organize some protests that got nowhere fast.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t get it. I mean, just last month, Spiderman stopped that weird mutant crocodile thing from stomping all over Brooklyn. Why would they want to get _rid_ of the people saving their asses on a regular basis?”

“Some people are just full of hate,” Bruce replies quietly. “And we’re an easy target for it. Especially those of us who aren’t normal humans. We’re different. That’s enough for some people to want us locked away from civilization.”

“And then there’s the occasional property destruction,” Tony adds dryly. “For some people, taking down bad guys isn’t a good enough excuse for a couple of buildings getting totalled.”

“They’re not exactly well known in the criminal underground,” Natasha continues. “A couple of members got arrested for trying to pull off a bank robbery. Another group of them managed to piss off a few people they _really_ shouldn’t have after stealing some cash and weapons. But other than that, they don’t seem hugely organized. They wear the masks and they post vitriol online, but that’s about it.”

“Until last night,” Stiles mutters, fiddling slightly with the edge of the bandage on his arm. “They were sloppy and untrained, but they were organized.”

“Tommy Miller,” Natasha says, tapping something on the screen so a picture comes up. “His criminal record started when he was fifteen. Petty crimes, mostly, carjacking, drunk and disorderly, theft. A few assault charges. He roped his friends into the Viper group and planned the attack on you last night.” She glances at him. “They thought you were a weak target.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of getting real sick of that,” Stiles replies. “How’d they know I’d be on the train?”

“Tommy works at video store,” she says. “He takes the subway back from work every day. He noticed the pattern of you catching the same train, knew just when to stage the assault.”

“I didn’t even notice him,” Stiles mutters, irritated, then asks, “Okay, so, what now? They’ve all been arrested.” 

“They’re not really something we need to worry about too much,” Natasha agrees. “Just monitor the group’s activity from now on. We would send a message about people targeting those close to the team to try and get to us, but you’ve already done that for us.”

“You’re trending, Bambi,” Tony throws in with a grin. “That video is everywhere.”

Steve smiles, his arm resting along the back of the couch behind Stiles’s head. “I think people now know that you’re not an easy target.”

Stiles nods. “Good, but…I mean, it’s not causing any PR damage, right?”

“Just the opposite, actually. The video shows you clearly acting in self-defence. The majority of people support you, or at least are sympathetic.” Tony pauses to take a drink from his coffee. “It’s doing good things for our PR. Good job.”

“Thanks. I’ll try and get stabbed more often.”

Clint snorts. “You were _barely_ stabbed. With an itty bitty blade. Remember when I got shot?”

“ _Barely_ shot,” Stiles shoots back. 

“Still counts.”

Steve’s hand finds the back of Stiles’s neck, fingers drifting lightly over his skin, and Stiles sighs, leaning back into the touch. It’s kind of a relief to know that there isn’t anything urgent that needs to be done about this Viper group. JARVIS will monitor the group and flag up anything that needs the Avengers’ attention, but right now, they’re not really much of a threat.

Still. He has to go in to HQ to give his report on what happened. He kind of wants nothing more than to spend a day at home with Steve, but hopefully it won’t take longer than an hour or so. 

The meeting apparently already over, Tony gets to his feet, leaving his jacket and tie draped over the back of a chair but picking up his coffee on his way to the elevator. Then he pauses, glancing back at them.

“Anyone able to get in touch with Point Break?” he asks.

Bruce shakes his head. “No, but I’ve spoken to Jane and made her aware of the situation. She insisted she’ll be fine.”

Tony nods. “I’ve met her. I can believe it.”

“What about Pepper?” Steve asks.

Tony grins slightly. “You have actually met Pepper, right?” And then he steps into the elevator, tossing a casual wave over his shoulder before the doors slide shut.

Stiles reluctantly pulls away from Steve, getting to his feet. “Well, I’ve got a date. Don’t wait up.”

Steve smiles. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“And make people think I need a big, strong, Avenger bodyguard?” Stiles points out. “If we’re gonna send a message that I’m _not_ a weak target, then going about my life without any concern is the best way to do that.”

“He’s right,” Natasha agrees, then glances at him, amusement sliding into her gaze. “Maybe don’t take the subway for a while, though, considering you ended up causing some minor damage to the train.” 

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Tony springing for the cost?” he guesses and she nods. “Damn. I keep owing him more and more favors.”

“Don’t let him hear you use the word ‘favor’,” Clint advises. “Last time he cashed in on a favor I owed him, I ended up stuck in a car sinking into the Hudson, getting shot at while he enjoyed a glass of Scotch in a nearby bar.”

Stiles laughs, carefully shrugging into his jacket. He’s kind of pissed about his nice bomber coat being ruined thanks to a knife-happy dickhead, but it means he gets to borrow Steve’s brown leather jacket for a while, which, in his humble opinion, is definitely worth getting a little bit stabbed. He has other jackets, but he’d decided not to mention that when Steve offered the use of his nice leather one. 

He leans down to kiss Steve. “See you later.”

He heads for the elevator, smiling when Steve gives him an adorable little wave as the doors slide shut. 

He takes Natasha’s advice and avoids the subway, instead taking the bus. He settles in the seat right at the back, but he’s still aware of gazes on him, can still hear the quiet murmur of the other passengers talking about him. 

Some of them seem tense, probably nervous about another bunch of masked assholes boarding the bus with knives to try and beat Stiles up, but others are whispering excitedly to each other, or sneaking him looks. One teenager hands their phone to her friend so they can watch the video of the train fight. 

He sighs, tucking his hands into his pockets, and turns to look out of the window instead. He’d started to get used to not having much privacy, since he’s dating Captain America and all. But he sometimes wishes that he could have one day where he can slip right back into being anonymous, just another random person navigating the large city. 

The heating on the bus is broken and cold air slides inside every time the doors open. His fingers feel like ice, even tucked into the warmth of Steve’s jacket. He’d had to throw out his gloves, since they were just too bloodstained. He tugs his phone out of his pocket, sending a message to Isaac.

_Stiles [13:27] hey, buddy, my pal, my guy, how’s the knitting going?_

Immediately, three little spots flicker to life on screen as Isaac starts typing out a response. Stiles smiles, leaning back in his seat as he waits.

_Isaac [13:28] I’m not knitting you another pair of gloves. I saw what you did to the other ones, you asshole_

_Stiles [13:28] that wasn’t my fault!! I got stabbed. did you miss that part?? totally not my fault_

He adds a sad face emoji for added effect and sends the message. He’s not above a little bit of self-pity to convince Isaac to knit him more gloves, but he’s always very, very careful with how far he takes his teasing or jokes, always very careful not to toe the boundary of emotional manipulation. 

It had taken them a while to get to a point where they could call each other a friend. They’re both pretty similar, too sarcastic for their own goods, and they can bicker back and forth like they hate each other, but they’re also both considerate. Stiles makes sure to be mindful of Isaac’s past and, in turn, Isaac’s own barbs, while biting, never touch on anything serious. 

_Isaac [13:31] fine. but I’m using red wool this time so bloodstains won’t show up on them_

Stiles grins and sends back a kiss face, laughing when he gets a middle finger emoji in response. 

The bus reaches his stop and he hops down to the sidewalk, zipping Steve’s jacket up tighter to ward off the crisp breeze. He sets off, navigating the streets, keeping a casual pace as he takes different twists and turns, turning back on himself a couple of times, making sure to throw off any potential followers.

Eventually, he ducks into an alley and knocks on a metal door. He waits as the hidden cameras assess him, doing the usual facial recognition, before the door opens and he steps into the back of a small kitchen.

The smell of hot frying oil, grease and cooking meat hangs in the air, the space thick with heat. The chefs don’t look up as he slips through the kitchen, unseen by the patrons of the diner as he ducks into a hallway. It’s narrow, with a set of stairs leading up to the diner manager’s apartment, but Stiles turns, pressing his palm to the bare wall next to him instead.

Once the security procedures are finished, he steps into the elevator that’s revealed, still blinking from the light of the orbital scanner.

This entrance to the base is less used, designed for entry to any agents having to keep completely covert. Since Stiles can’t be certain if any more Viper members are watching him or not, he’d decided to avoid going to the main entrance to HQ. 

The base is well heated and he unzips his jacket, letting the warmth seep into his bones as he makes his way to Coulson’s office. He passes Allison and a few of the other recruits on the way – he’s been given a couple of days off training due to his injury, but he kind of wishes he hadn’t; he actually misses it – and she gives him a look that lets him know she’s seen the video. He winks in response and is pleased when Joanna gives him a smile, just a small little curve of her mouth, but it’s a step towards a possible friendship that makes him happy.

Coulson’s waiting for him in his office, sat behind his desk. He beckons for Stiles to sit in the chair opposite.

“How’s your arm?” he asks.

“Surprisingly sore,” he replies. “Getting stabbed hurts like hell. Who knew?”

The director smiles slightly at that, a wry look on his face that teases at a story, but he doesn’t offer it. He just nods. 

“You’ll be taken off combat training until your injury has healed enough,” he says. “But you’ll continue your other training in the meantime.”

Stiles nods. “Sure. So, what happened to our guys?”

“Well, they just about wet themselves when they realized they were going to be questioned by SHIELD,” Coulson replies. “Full confessions, plus some useful information on other members of their group. They’re going to jail, but they got off pretty lightly, considering.” 

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Jail is light?”

“You did stab one of them,” Coulson reminds him. “You could have aimed somewhere other than his leg.”

Stiles hums. “I’m not saying that they don’t deserve jail…well, most of them, anyway. Tommy’s brother is just a misguided kid.”

“He’s been given house arrest,” Coulson replies, nodding in agreement. “But I think the whole event was enough to terrify him onto the straight and narrow anyway.” 

“Right, good. But the others, I mean…I’m gonna go ahead and guess that a lot of the prisoners sitting in jails are there because the Avengers took them in. What if these Viper guys make friends?”

“We’re well aware of that possibility,” he says. “They’ll be monitored.”

Stiles nods, sitting back in his seat. 

The debrief doesn’t take long. Mostly, he just has to confirm what happened in his own words and answer a couple of questions about the whole thing. 

When it’s done, he swings by the cafeteria, smiling when he sees Allison is there. She’s sat at their usual table and she raises an eyebrow at him as he falls into the seat opposite her. 

“You good?” she asks.

She doesn’t ask how his arm is, or how he’s holding up after getting assaulted on a train. She doesn’t try to get him to talk about it or lecture him about what he should have done to avoid getting stabbed. She just offers those two words. 

He nods. “I’m good.”

And that’s that.

“You really need a car,” she says.

He laughs, shrugging carefully, because it’s true. It would make getting to and from the base a hell of a lot easier, for one thing. 

“Stilinski!” Crawfield’s voice rings out. A second later, his hand lands on Stiles’s shoulder, sending a throb of pain through his injury.

He hisses out a breath. “Mother _fucker_ -.”

“Heard you got stabbed,” Crawfield continues, dropping into the chair next to him. “With a _pen knife_. How the fuck did you manage that? My twelve year old cousin could block a pen knife.”

“That’s nice,” Stiles replies. “I’m sure she’ll give you lessons if you ask.”

Crawfield ignores him. “So, what’d you need? A few stitches? C’mon.” He lifts his shirt, exposing a nasty scar in his abdomen. “Now _that_ is a stab wound. Bowie knife, pure, wicked steel. All ‘cause I spoke back to some idiot trying to mug me. Fucker took my wallet and left me there bleeding, but I survived. _That_ is getting stabbed.”

“Kinda sounds like a successful mugging to me,” Stiles says. “I mean, he kicked your ass _and_ took your wallet.”

“Are you seriously comparing scars?” Allison asks Crawfield, one eyebrow arched. “You realize that if you get stabbed, you’re doing it wrong, right?” 

Crawfield cracks his knuckles slightly. “I’m just saying, there ain’t nothing brave about getting a little stab wound.”

Lowell joins them, sitting in the empty seat on Stiles’s other side. “You turned your back on the knife,” he tells Stiles, a smug note threading through his voice. “You should never turn your back on a knife, Stilinski.”

Allison narrows her eyes, pushing her tray of food slightly away from her. She meets Stiles’s gaze, silently asking if this needs to escalate, but he shakes his head. The guys are assholes. He can more than handle it. He’d been dealing with this kind of douchebaggery since high school. It’s no different just because they know how to throw a punch or handle a gun. 

Before he can say anything, though, a tray slams down onto the table and Joanna slips into the seat next to Allison. She looks between Lowell and Crawfield. 

“Boys,” she says. She’s only a few years older, but it’s obvious the patronizing tone in her voice grates on the two men. “I’ve witnessed less testosterone when I was teaching high school kids. Now, I’m sure your dicks aren’t that small, but how about you go and measure them somewhere else?”

Crawfield’s face goes red, jaw tensing with barely leashed anger. “The fuck do you think you’re talking to, you -.”

Stiles jerks his elbow into Crawfield’s ribs, hard enough to make him wheeze, but not painful enough to draw any attention from everyone else in the cafeteria.

“Finish that sentence,” he warns. “I _dare_ you.”

Before either Crawfield or Lowell can reply, another tray appears on the table. Jones sits down on Allison’s other side. She doesn’t say a word, just looks between them as chews serenely on a mouthful of pasta. 

Jones is tiny, barely five foot, and has the slim, elegant frame that shows the dance training she had growing up. She’s thirty, but looks younger, with tight curls reaching her chin and a map of freckles on her dark skin. She’s also probably one of the best in the group in training. Stiles has been up against her in hand to hand sparring. It had _hurt_.

Crawfield looks between them before finally spitting out a curse. He gets up from the table, leaving the room altogether. After a moment, Lowell leaves the table as well, returning to the table where Anderson and Garcia are waiting for him.

Stiles glances across the table at the three women. Allison just smiles, brown eyes lit up with humor, and shrugs slightly. 

“It’s like high school over again,” she says. “Except these guys have nothing on Jackson when he was in shitty mood.”

Jones smiles. “I was a pilot in the Air Force,” she replies, tone dry as dust. “Crawfield is nothing.”

Joanna doesn’t smile back, just takes a drink from her bottle of water. She looks different than she usually does; the tension she holds in her body, constantly on alert, waiting for little biting remarks or sneers from Crawfield, is gone and she looks less withdrawn, her face warmer, more open. 

Stiles kind of wishes he’d approached her before. He’d noticed she kept to herself and wasn’t included much by the others, just like him, but he hadn’t thought much about it until he’d first heard Crawfield’s ugly comment to her. 

“Are you okay?” he checks. 

She rolls her eyes. “Like I said, I used to work in a high school. I’ve heard a lot worse.” She rubs slightly at the scar on her throat. “Do you know why he hates me so much?”

“Because he’s a dick?” Stiles offers.

She smiles. “Well, yes, that too. But you haven’t heard them all talking about it?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t really talk much to them unless it’s necessary,” he reminds her. “And I don’t tend to listen to the rumors. I mean, according to them, I’m geared up to be the next Captain America, so.” 

“My fiancée was Hydra.”

Jones doesn’t bat an eyelid, which suggests she’d already known. Stiles feels himself tense slightly, instinctively, at the mention of Hydra. Across from him, Allison has gone still, her gaze on the table but her head tilted towards Joanna, waiting silently for her to continue. 

“I didn’t know,” Joanna adds. “I knew she worked for SHIELD. An analyst, or so I thought. I didn’t really know much about it. I mean, I was just a high school teacher. It wasn’t until the Triskelion went down and SHIELD was all over the news that I discovered the truth. My fiancée wasn’t an analyst. She was a field agent. And she was a double agent, working for Hydra all along.” She swallows slightly, blinking a couple of times. “When she told me, I couldn’t believe it. She looked so…so _cold_. She told me that she needed to disappear, which meant she had to get rid of anyone who knew her. She tried to slit my throat, and she left me on the ground, bleeding, like I was nothing.”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters. “That’s…that’s fucking _evil_.”

“Hydra,” Joanna reminds him with a small, bitter smile. “It took a while for me to try and accept that the woman I loved could be the kind of person to work for Hydra. But looking in the mirror and seeing the scar she left me with helped. After that, I couldn’t just carry on with my normal life. So I joined SHIELD. I don’t think I’ll ever see her again. I don’t _want_ to. I’m not out for revenge. I just want to help people, so no one else gets hurt, by Hydra or anyone else.” She lifts her chin slightly, eyes slightly wet but her expression fierce. “So, there you go. That’s why they don’t talk to me. They think I knew all along.”

There’s a pause as she looks at them, as if waiting for them to agree, to get up and walk away from her. Stiles just shrugs.

“Well, that’s fucking dumb,” he says. “How many people were double agents all along and no one knew? All that time, _no one_ had a clue. That’s not on the people who were innocent. It’s not your fault your fiancée turned out to be an evil bitch.”

She blinks. When Allison just nods in silent agreement, the tension eases out of her shoulders. For a second, she looks vulnerable, as if unsure how to accept the fact that they’re not going to shut her out like she has some kind of plague, and then she manages a small smile.

“Well, there you go,” she says. “Next time they say some nonsense about you, you can reassure yourself with the fact that they say a lot worse about me.”

A heavy silence descends over the table. Jones – Margot, Stiles remembers her first name – carries on eating, looking pretty much unconcerned about everything that’s gone on in the last few minutes. Allison glances between Joanna and Stiles, a sly little smile tugging at her mouth.

“So,” she teases. “How about those Red Sox, huh?”

***

When he gets back to the tower, he goes straight to his suite to take a shower.

He’s careful to avoid getting the bandage on his arm wet. After he dries off, he carefully removes the bandage so he can examine the stitches. They look normal enough and the pain isn’t that bad now he’s taken a couple of the tablets the medic had given him, so he applies a fresh bandage and dresses in his Captain America sweatpants and a shirt that depicts a cartoon Iron Man trapped underneath a smirking Hulk’s foot. The caption reads ‘ _Puny Tin Man_ ’. 

“Hey, JARV?” he asks, ruffling his hair with a towel. “Where’s Steve?”

“Captain Rogers is in the fitness suite. Would you like me to inform him that you’re home?”

“Nah, that’s okay. Is Tony in his workshop?”

“He is,” the AI confirms.

“Is he busy?”

“Sir is currently adjusting designs for a miniaturized sonic canon.” 

He pauses. “So…is that a yes or a no?”

JARVIS doesn’t answer, but the elevator doors slide open, so Stiles grins and obediently steps inside. He tucks his hands into his pockets and whistles slightly as the elevator starts it’s descent.

“You know what these elevators could use?” he asks. “Elevator music. You know, that jazzy, quirky kind of muzak?”

“I’ll be sure to pose the suggestion to Sir,” JARVIS replies dryly. 

Stiles grins. “I bet that’ll go down well.” The elevator stops, doors gliding open. “Hey, JARV, when Steve’s done with his workout, can you let him know I’m in the workshop?”

“Certainly, Stiles.”

Stiles is sure he’ll never be able to move out of the tower, even if Steve decides they need their own place. He can’t live without Tony Stark’s AI anymore. 

The glass door to the workshop opens as he approaches. Tony’s sat in a chair in the middle of the large space, leaning back in it as he opens up holographic screen after holographic screen. He spins in the chair as he turns to each one, using his fingers to zoom in and adjust different blueprints, swiping to discard others. 

It’s kind of like magic, in its own way, watching Tony orchestrate technological _genius_ with just his hands and his brain. 

AC/DC blares over the workshop’s speakers. Tony doesn’t glance up as the door closes again and Stiles makes his way over to the couch tucked into one corner of the room.  
Bucky’s there, feet propped up on the glass coffee table, reading intently despite the loud music. 

“Hey, there, Manchurian Candidate,” Stiles says, dropping down onto the other side of the couch.

Tony doesn’t look away from the screen in front of him as he gives a bark of laughter. Bucky pauses, giving Tony a look colder than ice before he turns his scowl Stiles’s way.

“Stop hanging out with Stark.”

“Hey,” Tony protests, looking over with a smug grin. “I didn’t tell him to call you that. Bambi clearly just has an excellent sense of humor.” And then he pauses, smile snapping into a narrow-eyed look. He spins the chair to face them properly and points an accusing finger towards Stiles’s chest. “What the hell is _that_?”

Stiles smirks. “A shirt.”

“No, nope, nuh-uh,” Tony replies. “That is not official merchandise. That is unlicensed use of my image, is what it is. J, get a lawsuit started.”

“Certainly, Sir,” the AI replies, clearly having no intention to actually do it; he knows when Tony is serious and when he’s messing around. 

“You don’t like the shirt?” Stiles asks innocently.

“I think I’m gonna have to burn all of the Iron Man themed shirts in your closet,” Tony replies. “Steve’s encouraging this, isn’t he?”

“He’s…not actively _dis_ couraging it.”

“There will be words,” Tony promises. “JARV, place an order for Bambi for some _decent_ Iron Man shirts. From the official line.” He glances at Stiles. “You’re a…what? A child’s size -.”  
Before he can finish, Stiles lifts his middle finger. “Fuck off.”

Tony grins and spins away again, propping his feet on one of the tables. He spins a wrench in the air as his attention snaps back to his designs. His brow furrows slightly as he pinches the screen, zooming in on one of the mechanisms.

“No, no, that just won’t work,” he mutters. “J, adjust the – yeah, that, perfect. Run a simulation, let me know if it’ll work. Can you start a diagnostic on – oh, you already have. Good job, buddy. Okay, good, now…what is that? 67% chance of failure? Damn it, okay, scratch that, start over.”

Stiles tunes him out, grabbing one of the spare tablets from the coffee table. JARVIS, despite being in the middle of a discussion with Tony, automatically opens the language program and Stiles smiles, selecting Russian.

It’s surprisingly relaxing, hanging out in Tony’s workshop. He knows it’s a show of trust from the older man to let him be in here so regularly, which is also pretty cool. 

Steve occasionally spends time down here; there’s a vast pool of inspiration for sketches and he seems to enjoy having down time with his teammate, even if Tony’s distracted. Stiles knows that Natasha and Clint sometimes hang out in the workshop as well, but not nearly as much as Bruce. Banner has his own lab, more suited to his kind of science, but Stiles has walked in on him and Tony bouncing ideas off each other numerous times.

Bucky tends to spend the most time in the workshop. He seems to find it relaxing, in a way; the music, the futuristic tech, the busy, constant movement of Tony and his robots as they work an environment that Bucky enjoys. Plus, he’s kind of a science geek; Stiles has seen him watch Tony build, invent or simply design with rapt attention.

It’s the same reason Stiles enjoys being in the workshop. Watching Tony work is incredible and it’s amazing, just being in a space full of such genius, watching robots wheel around the workshop like errant pets. And he finds that, sometimes, he needs to be around other people without actually being _around_ them, and Tony is ideal for that. He’s a reassuring presence in the room without the pressure to talk or actively spend time together, since he’s usually busy with one thing or another (or, more often than not, multiple projects at once).

Stiles gets to work on a translation challenge, wrinkling his nose slightly when the screen flashes red, letting him know that he’d got something wrong. Bucky glances first at him and then at the tablet.

“If you want, I can help,” he says.

“I know,” Stiles replies carefully. “I just…didn’t want to ask.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Thanks, pal.”

“No, I mean, I just…I didn’t want to ask you in case it…you know. Triggered bad memories.” 

He pauses at that, looking a little surprised. “It doesn’t…bother me so much anymore,” he replies. “Now, I just see it like other languages that I’ve learned. That way, Hydra doesn’t get any control over me anymore.”

Tony glances over his shoulder. “Basically, he’s stubborn and petty, like me,” he adds. “They can’t have any power over you if you refuse to _give_ them any.”

“Wise words, Ghandi,” Stiles replies. He twists slightly to face Bucky on the couch. “Okay. Let’s learn me some Russian, Robo Cop.”

Bucky sighs and Tony laughs. 

“Now, that one I _did_ teach him.”

By the time Steve joins them, Stiles and Bucky are having a full conversation in Russian. It’s slow and stilted, but Bucky is surprisingly patient, and corrects or provides translations when Stiles stumbles over a word or phrase.

Tony chimes in now and then. He’s surprisingly fluent, his accent almost as flawless as Bucky or Nat’s, as if he’s a native speaker. It’s a little surprising, since Stiles has heard him speak Russian to Natasha before, and his accent had been _awful_ , a grating American drawl butchering the language. He suspects that Tony does it just to bug Natasha, teasing in that way of his that just barely toes the line of being abrasive.

He also thinks that it’s something Tony does a lot, with different things; contrasting his arrogant, egotistical manner with a tendency to hide how good he _actually_ is at something. That way, he can surprise and manipulate people.

Stiles has learned that Tony is as skilled with words as he is with his hands. He can talk in lazy, casual circles, weaving in tighter and tighter turns until he has the other person trapped. It’s clever and perceptive, and another way of keeping people at a distance if he chooses. It’s something Stiles is good at, too (he always has been; he’d talked himself out of trouble plenty of times as a kid, simply by talking circles around other people, and it’s one of the reasons he’d been interested in law), but he hasn’t honed it to quite as much of an artform as Tony has.

He doesn’t pick up a lot of what Tony says, but he recognizes the odd swear word, and whatever he says has Bucky giving a reluctant smile. Stiles suspects it’s filthy, insulting or just plain outrageous, or probably all three. Tony is good at that, regardless of the language he’s speaking in.

Steve’s still in his workout clothes when he enters the workshop, hair damp with sweat. He smiles when he spots Stiles and Bucky, heading over.

“How was it?” he asks.

“Good,” Stiles answers. “Coulson says hi. Can you do me a favor and stay back?”

Steve pauses. “Why?”

“I can smell you from here. So gross.”

Steve laughs and closes the distance between them, scooping Stiles up. He flails slightly, startled, the tablet slipping out of his grip. Bucky’s hand flashes out, catching the device before it crashes into the coffee table.

He ends up thrown over Steve’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He sighs but resigns himself to it, staring at Steve’s ass as he heads for the door.

“See you later, guys,” he says, giving an upside down salute to Bucky and Tony.

Once they’re in the elevator, he gives Steve’s ass a little pat, but Steve just laughs instead of putting him down. He carries him into the suite and straight to the bedroom, depositing him on the bed.

Stiles smiles, stretching out, and watches as Steve disappears into the bathroom. He listens to the sound of the shower running, closing his eyes as he relaxes. For a moment, he just enjoys the peace, feels that warm, happy feeling unfurl in his chest. 

The reality of dating a superhero means he’s often horribly aware that he could lose Steve; each time he goes out to face a threat, he’s in danger. But it’s getting easier and enjoying these snatches of time where everything is calm and he can hear Steve moving about, hear him whistling tunelessly as he washes his hair, is important to Stiles. 

When Steve joins him, he’s dried off, hair still slightly damp, and he doesn’t bother to put on any clothes. He just moves to lie on his stomach on the bed, pillowing his head on his arms as he looks at Stiles.

“How’s your arm?” he murmurs.

“Terrible,” Stiles replies. “I don’t think there’s much hope, Steve. It’ll have to be amputated.”

Steve snorts. “I’m sure Tony will build you a neat prosthetic.”

“Yeah, knowing him, he’d build in some cool rocket launchers or something.”

Steve smiles, blue eyes catching the flat Fall sunlight slanting through the windows. Sometimes, they seem almost impossibly blue, framed by long, thick lashes, and it really is unfair how beautiful Steve is. 

Stiles reaches out, running a finger along Steve’s arm. He watches Steve’s eyes close, body relaxing under the touch, and he scoots down the bed, pillowing his head on Steve’s naked ass.

Steve makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. “Comfy?”

“Yep,” he replies. “Have I told you how much I love your ass?”

“Twice this morning, three times yesterday, several times the day before that,” Steve answers, a smile in his voice. 

“It’s a work of art, Steve.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles grins and gives one cheek a firm squeeze. When Steve’s breath hitches slightly, he sinks his teeth, very gently, into the skin, enjoying the shudder that ripples through Steve’s frame.

“Wanna work up another sweat?” 

Steve groans. “You really need better lines.”

“You like my lines,” Stiles replies. He bites a matching little mark into the other cheek, feeling firm muscle and smooth skin under his hands. 

Steve just hums, neither confirming nor denying, and Stiles grins, peppering little kisses to Steve’s thighs and ass. He pauses to give a little lick to the dip at the bottom of Steve’s spine, arousal sliding like syrup through his veins when Steve moans in response. He traces a path up Steve’s spine with hot, open mouthed kisses until he reaches Steve’s neck. He leaves a mark there that will be healed in less than an hour and Steve tilts his head slightly to capture his mouth in a slow, lazy kiss.

Stiles keeps kissing Steve as he reaches over him to open the nightstand, grabbing the bottle of lube there. He gives a final little nip to Steve’s bottom lip before sliding back down his body. He sets the bottle aside, within reach on the mattress, and scrapes his teeth lightly over the curve of Steve’s ass. He gets a full bodied shiver in response, a quiet little murmur of encouragement, and he smiles, massaging both cheeks with his hands. 

He’d learned a few months ago that, while Steve isn’t unexperienced when it comes to a lot of things in the bedroom, he’d never had someone’s mouth on his ass before, which is a tragic shame that Stiles had been quick to remedy. After all, Steve has an ass that deserves to be completely worshipped. 

Before Steve, it was something Stiles enjoyed, both giving and receiving, but not necessarily high up on his list of favorite things to do in bed. But with Steve, fuck, he could spend hours giving Steve pleasure like this. Steve is so _responsive_ ; he loves it, letting his control slip enough to get really vocal, hands twisting in the sheets and spine curving beautifully as he makes sure to tell and show Stiles just good he’s feeling. It’s the most gorgeous thing Stiles has ever seen. 

Having Steve under his hands, trusting him so much that he gives control completely over to Stiles, knowing he’ll take care of him, knowing that he’ll make Steve feel so deliciously good, is something that still wrecks Stiles in the best way possible. Searing lust and aching tenderness battle it out in his chest as he focuses on teasing Steve, moaning against him when Steve writhes slightly, breathless gasps filling the room. 

“Stiles,” he says eventually, voice hoarse. “Come on.”

He finishes what his mouth started with slick fingers, opening Steve up slowly and carefully. He angles, finding that spot he now knows so well, and grins when Steve’s hips twitch and his fingers clench around the pillow, moan muffled into the bed. 

Stiles strips his shirt off, wiping his hand on it before he takes off the rest of his clothes, tossing them carelessly to the floor. He pours more lube onto his erection, stroking a couple of times before he grips Steve’s hips, encouraging him up onto his knees. 

Steve reaches behind him, hand finding the back of Stiles’s neck, pulling him into a deep kiss as Stiles slowly enters him. There’s a flush crawling across his skin, his lips full and dark, blue eyes open with pupils blown wide as he looks at Stiles.

“I love you,” he murmurs. 

Stiles smiles, kissing his way down Steve’s jaw and throat to his shoulder. He loves how Steve always says it when Stiles is inside him, his voice low and possessive and wrecked. He usually keeps that little possessive streak well buried, not that Stiles minds it too much. Steve’s version of possessive isn’t an ugly one, isn’t controlling or cruel or jealous; mostly, it consists of frequently reminding Stiles just how loved he is, which definitely isn’t a problem. In the bedroom, though, sometimes he lets more of it show, and Stiles _loves_ it. 

“I love you too.” He breathes the words into Steve’s shoulder as he starts to move.

Steve reaches out, one hand curling around the headboard, the other lingering on Stiles’s neck, holding him close as Stiles starts to fuck him, slow and deep. He arches his back slightly, pressing back into each thrust, angling so Stiles slides deeper inside him, until Steve moans, fingers twitching against Stiles’s neck, careful – always so careful – not to grip too tight. 

“You look so perfect like this,” Steve murmurs, tipping his head to look at Stiles. “You love it, don’t you?”

Stiles shivers, toes curling slightly. “Yeah,” he answers breathlessly. “Yeah. I love _you_ , Steve, so fucking much.”

“Good,” he replies, and the smugness there wrenches a little laugh out of Stiles. 

Stiles moves a little faster, hips snapping, and reaches around, stroking Steve in rhythm with each thrust. The headboard creaks ominously as Steve’s grip on it tightens, threatening to break it (Stiles doesn’t mind; it’s not exactly the first bed they’ve ended up wrecking, after all), and his head drops forward. Stiles kisses the back of his sweat damp neck, giving a little twist of his hips, feeling a thrill of satisfaction when Steve clenches around him and cries out as he comes, spilling hot over Stiles’s hand.

He strokes Steve through it, moaning with each twitch of aftershock. His grip on Steve’s hip tightens when Steve clenches around him, encouraging, and it doesn’t take more than four thrusts before he finishes inside Steve, pressing his hoarse shout into the skin of Steve’s shoulder as he shakes. 

Steve manages to lock his legs so they don’t collapse in a tangle of limbs, holding them both up as Stiles catches his breath and waits for his own body to cooperate again. Then, carefully, he pulls out and flops down onto the bed next to Steve. 

After a second, he grins. “You need another shower.”

“Mm,” he replies, kissing the hollow of Stiles’s throat. “You could always join me.”

“That doesn’t sound conducive to getting clean.”

“Who said anything about getting clean?”

Stiles laughs, sliding his arms around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him down on top of him, not giving a damn about the cooling come on Steve’s belly smearing against his own as he kisses him.

Steve kisses him back, the deep, heated, all-consuming kiss that he’s so skilled at, leaving Stiles breathless and unable to focus on anything but the sensation of Steve’s body against his own and the heat of Steve’s mouth. 

He feels Steve start to harden again, pressing into his hip, and grins slightly as he pulls back.

“So, round two?”

***

Tony blocks Natasha’s kick, twisting to drive an elbow towards her face. She avoids it easily, but he follows, trying to hook his foot around her ankle. She kicks his foot away and lifts her body into a flip that almost defies the laws of gravity, bringing him down onto the mat with a _thud_ that echoes through the gym. 

“Okay, _ow_ ,” he manages. “Ease up, spiderling.”

“ _Spiderling_?” she repeats dangerously, but her mouth twitches slightly, giving away her amusement. 

“Not my best one, I admit, but you did just body slam me into the floor. Cut me some slack.”

She rolls her eyes and offers him a hand, barely straining as she helps him to his feet. She adjusts her little ponytail and stretches her arms above her head before falling back into a guard. 

Stiles has seen Tony spar in his suit plenty of times, but never out of it until now. He’s strong, but Stiles had figured that already; he might not be a huge cut of beefcake like Thor, but he has hard, defined muscle, and he’d have to be strong to work with the suit the way he does. He obviously has some kind of formal training, falling back on instinct into mixed martial arts when Natasha goes in hard, but he also mimics some moves that he’s clearly been taught by Steve.

He isn’t as bendy as Steve, or as fast as Natasha, or as brutal as Bucky, but he’s innovative, some of his moves spur of the moment and creative enough to look ridiculous, but they work, simply because they catch his opponent by surprise. 

Several feet away, Steve’s sparring with Bucky, which is always an interesting sight. With Natasha, Clint, Tony or Stiles, he always holds back, careful of his strength. With Thor and Bucky, he doesn’t have to be so cautious; he can really let go and use all of his pretty considerable potential. 

But, while Thor has his whole god-level strength and all, and tends to kick, well, pretty much everyone’s ass (unless Tony is in the suit, or Steve has the shield), Bucky is more of an even match for Steve. It’s fascinating to watch them; some of their fighting style is so similar, yet at the same time, they’re also so _different_. 

They’re both flexible, incredibly strong, and so fast that it’s hard to keep track sometimes, their movements almost a blur. But where Bucky is brutal, forcing forwards with ruthless violence, Steve is better at blocking, defending as much as he attacks. Bucky has his arm, but Steve’s good at thinking on his feet. It’s a coin toss each time on who will win, if either of them; sometimes, it ends up as a draw. 

Thor is still off world and Clint’s disappeared without a trace, but he does that sometimes. Natasha never seems worried, so Stiles doesn’t comment on it. 

Next to him, Bruce is busy on his tablet, glasses sliding slightly down his nose. He adjusts them with one finger, gaze flickering across the screen, attention totally absorbed in whatever it is he’s working on.

Stiles watches Tony kiss the mat again, Natasha crouched with one knee in the middle of his spine, her hand in his hair to keep him pinned. 

“So,” he says. “You didn’t want to spar?”

Bruce slides him an amused glance. “Sparring isn’t really a good idea for me. The other guy doesn’t like it when I get hit, so. Yoga’s more my thing.”

“Yoga, huh? In my experience, yoga can be just as violent. Last time I went to a class with Allison and Lydia, I accidentally kicked some poor guy in the head. I was asked not to come back.” 

“It’s concerning how much that doesn’t surprise me,” Bruce replies, tone mild. 

“You’ve gotten used to me,” Stiles says, pleased. “I tend to grow on people, like a fungus. Even Natasha smiles at me more.”

“I was already used to you,” Bruce says dryly. “I spend a worrying percentage of my time around Tony. It’s inoculated me against you.”

“We’re not a _disease_. Besides, Tony has nothing on me. I’m younger, more limber, and, let’s face it, way, _way_ cooler.”

“Uh,” Tony calls, ducking to avoid Natasha’s kick. “I have a flying suit of armor.”

“Yeah? Well, _I_ have a Steve.”

Steve twists Bucky into a chokehold, shooting Stiles a look full of exasperated fondness. He grins back, giving a cheerful wink.

“Besides,” Bruce says after a moment. “Natasha told me you’ve been joining her for yoga. She said your flexibility has improved.”

Natasha knocks Tony on his ass and turns to Bruce with a frown. “You shouldn’t have told him I said that. Don’t give him compliments. He’ll take the inch and turn it into a mile before you know it.”

Stiles considers being insulted, but then just gives a conceding shrug. “Fair,” he agrees.

“I find yoga useful for meditation, personally,” Bruce says.

Stiles hums, nodding slightly. “I prefer tai chi.”

He glances over, surprised. “You practice tai chi?”

“Sure. Agent May lets me join her sometimes, as long as I don’t talk to her. Or look at her. Or acknowledge her presence. But she showed me some moves. It’s good for self-defence, but mostly, I just find it helpful for meditation, you know? It’s calming. It slows my mind down when everything goes too fast and spinny. It helps me focus on something other than, like, a million thoughts at once.”

Bruce gives a quiet sound of agreement. “I know what you mean.”

Natasha’s thighs wrap around Tony’s neck, locking him into a hold, and she squeezes until he finally taps the mat twice. Bucky grabs Steve’s arm, twisting it, but he flips into a somersault and uses the momentum to throw Bucky to the floor. Then he steps back, grinning as Bucky grumbles and gets back to his feet.

Steve meets Stiles’s gaze. “You’re up.”

Stiles sets his phone aside and gets to his feet. Tony takes his place next to Bruce, the two of them immediately diving right into a debate the two of them have clearly had numerous times before, Bruce’s expression full of indulgent exasperation and Tony’s brimming with playful indignation. 

Stiles watches Bucky join Natasha on her mat; she launches herself at him, flipping around his body until she gets her legs around his neck.

“You’re getting predictable,” he warns.

She grins, squeezing her thighs. “Want me to pose more of a challenge?” she asks, and then drops her body forward into a roll, slamming his head to the ground as she does so. She turns as she shifts into a crouch and winks at him. “Happy to oblige.”

Stiles has witnessed Natasha flirt a couple of times before, but he’d seen right through it. It’s another kind of weapon, a way to manipulate people when she needs to, or put a barrier up between herself and the other person. This is different. She _means_ this flirting and Bucky actually smiles, a genuine warmth to it as he gets back to his feet.

Stiles tears his gaze away from them and joins Steve on the other mat. 

He’d had to take some time out from sparring due to his stab wound, but he’s finally cleared to get back to it. The stitches are gone, leaving a neat, red scar on his bicep. It still aches occasionally, especially in the brittle cold weather, but it’s manageable, and even though he’s kept on top of working out in other ways, he’s missed sparring.

Steve doesn’t hold back the way he used to when they first started training together. He’s very careful of his strength and he adjusts his speed slightly so it’s a little fairer to Stiles, but he doesn’t go easy on him by any means; he pushes Stiles just as hard as Natasha or Bucky, showing him just how to take down someone like him.

He launches into a jumping roundhouse kick. Stiles rolls back on his feet, out of range, and grabs Steve’s leg. He drives his elbow down into Steve’s thigh, then twists, kicking out Steve’s other foot so he flips onto the floor. He’s already rolling back to his feet, though, not even winded from the impact, and he lands a series of quick blows to Stiles’s ribs, forcing him to the edge of the mat.

When he throws a punch towards Stiles’s solar plexus, Stiles turns, and as Steve’s arm keeps extending it knocks him off balance, just for a second; Stiles moves behind him, getting his arms around Steve in a lock. 

He does a neat backflip right over Stiles’s shoulders, grabbing his arm as he lands so he can force Stiles to the floor, arm twisted behind him. 

Stiles sighs and taps the mat twice.

Steve releases his arm, stepping back, and has the nerve to give a little wink as Stiles gets to his feet and faces him. He bites back a laugh, shaking his head slightly. 

“You’re a troll,” he grumbles.

“Want me to go a little slower for you?” Steve replies easily. 

“Well,” Stiles says with a casual smile. “I know _someone_ who isn’t getting a blowjob later.”

It works; the words throw Steve off for a second, caught by surprise by the comment, and Stiles takes advantage of his distraction. He jumps, hooking one leg over Steve’s shoulder, slamming his other knee into his ribs before he throws his weight backwards, trying to flip Steve up and over him into the mat. Steve rolls with him, though, and as they both come back to their feet, he turns, lightning fast, and twists his body into a spinning back kick.

Stiles throws himself back to the floor, dodging the kick, completing a suicide kip-up to land on his feet in time to block a punch with his forearm. He grabs Steve’s arm, twists, and hauls him in, his other hand landing two solid blows to Steve’s side before he breaks the hold and push kicks Stiles back several steps.

Before Stiles can catch his breath, Steve throws his body into a sharp somersault, one leg kicking out towards Stiles’s face; he evades it by pulling a move Thor had taught him, an inward 360 dive roll that brings him up into a crouch facing Steve again. Steve looks a little surprised, but grins, fist flying towards Stiles. He blocks it by crossing his forearms in front of his face, pushing up onto his feet as he shoves Steve back, forcing his extended arm to the side and snapping a side kick to his ribs. The blow lands, but not hard enough to have much of an effect, and Steve tackles him in the next instant, getting him on the floor, his legs and arms locked around Stiles to keep him pinned.

Stiles struggles for a second before giving in with a sigh, tapping the mat twice with what little room he has to manoeuvre in. 

Steve lets him go, rolling gracefully back to his feet, and holds out a hand to help Stiles up. 

“You’re getting better,” he says.

Stiles gives him a slightly sour look. “Clearly.”

“Hey, you can actually hit me now,” Steve points out. “That’s an improvement.”

“That’s…not as complimentary as you think it is.”

“Maybe,” he allows. “But you tend to perform better in situations where you can use the environment to your advantage, anyway. Remember when you threw that plate at Clint’s head?”

“I _missed_ ,” Stiles replies, still a little sheepish about that incident. “And it’s his fault for sneaking up on me at 3am. He told me I need to stop throwing things at the good guys. I’m pretty sure Hunter agrees.”

“I think we’d all feel a little safer if you stopped throwing things,” Steve says, grinning slightly. “You tend to hit first, ask questions later.”

“Yeah, stones in glass houses, babe.” Stiles rolls out his shoulders before meeting Steve’s gaze again. “Best of three?”

Steve grins. “Want to place a bet?”

He pauses. He really should’ve learned by now that these kinds of bets with Steve never work out well for him, but he can never resist a challenge.

“What’s the stakes?” he asks.

“If you land a hit,” Steve murmurs, moving closer so the words are spoken in Stiles’s ear, the others unable to overhear. “We’ll be done for today and we can go take a long, hot shower together.”

Stiles shivers slightly, tilting his head slightly to skim his lips across Steve’s jaw. 

“But,” Steve adds. “If I take you down in less than three seconds, you have to carry on training with Natasha and Buck while I go take a shower alone.”

Stiles hums. “A shower alone is just sad, Steve. How is that in any way you winning?”

He shrugs. “It’s not about me winning. It’s about giving you incentive.”

Stiles steps back, smirking. “Okay. You’re on.”

He doesn’t even see it coming. One second, Steve is stood there, a smug look on his face, and the next, he’s in the air, body twisted in an aerial, and his foot comes down hard on Stiles’s chest, knocking him straight to the floor.

He stays there, sprawled on the mat, trying to catch his breath. Steve had pulled it, so apart from the initial force of the blow, the pain doesn’t linger, but he’s definitely had the breath slammed right out of him. 

“Oh, you’re an asshole,” he finally manages.

Steve steps closer, looking down at him with a grin. “Guess I’m showering alone.”

“Guess you are. Enjoy your right hand.” 

Steve just laughs. “Enjoy training with Natasha.”

Stiles gets to his feet, watching Steve leave the gym. Natasha and Bucky have finished wiping the floor with each other and she turns, looking at Stiles, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

He only takes a moment to consider before he shrugs and says, “Rain check?”

And then he hurries out of the gym and into the elevator. Steve’s already in the bathroom when Stiles reaches the suite, but he pauses as he finishes stripping out of his clothes, glancing at him.

“Why am I not surprised?” he asks, mouth curling into a smile.

“Oh, please,” Stiles replies. “Like I’d ever leave you to your own right hand.” 

***

An hour later, he’s on the bed, Steve’s hand on his cock and his mouth on Stiles’s neck, when Stiles’s phone rings.

“Ignore it,” Steve murmurs, nipping a little at Stiles’s shoulder, adding a little, teasing twist as he strokes his cock. 

Stiles groans slightly, hips twitching as he tries to thrust into Steve’s touch, his toes curling. He’s close, so fucking close, and Steve’s grinding against his thigh to get himself off, breath coming in little, pleased gasps against Stiles’s skin. 

When Stiles’s phone rings a second time, they both ignore it, Steve moving his hand faster, murmuring filthy things in Stiles’s ear, but then it rings a third time and Stiles just can’t tune it out. He drops his head back with a sigh.

“It’s SHIELD,” he says. “And it must be pretty important for them to keep ringing.”

Steve mutters a curse. He looks a little flushed, skin gleaming slightly with sweat, his mouth full and red as he tries to catch his breath. He looks wrecked and Stiles wants nothing more than to finish the job; he doesn’t even mind not having an orgasm himself, he just wants to get Steve off. 

“Tell Coulson that I’m gonna take those signed playing cards off him for this,” Steve mutters, moving to lie down next to him on the bed.

Stiles grins and sits up, snatching his phone off the nightstand when it starts ringing _again_ , loud and insistent. 

“You just cockblocked a national icon,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting. “So I really hope this is important.”

Steve lifts his head. “Stiles,” he warns, a little startled and a lot unimpressed. “ _Christ_.”

“If you like,” Daisy says dryly, “I can ask Coulson what priority level this mission is. Then you can deem if it’s important enough to leave Steve with blue balls.”

“ _Nothing_ is that important,” Stiles replies. “I’m pretty sure it’s considered treason to let Captain America die of blue balls.”

Steve drops his head back with a groan. “Why am I attracted to you?” he mutters.

Stiles grins and offers a wink. He decides to answer Steve by _showing_ him just why, reaching out to Steve’s still hard dick, gathering a drop of precome on his thumb. Steve shudders and his hand flashes out, catching Stiles’s wrist, a warning expression on his face.

Stiles just pulls his wrist free and lifts his hand, licking the precome from his thumb. Steve’s hands flex on the sheets, his eyes going dark and hooded as he takes a deep breath.

Stiles smirks and turns away, focusing back to his phone call. “What mission?” 

“The mission Coulson wants you on.”

He blinks. “Wait, for real?” he stands up, only feeling a tiny bit guilty for how quickly he gets distracted from a naked, turned on Steve. “I’ve been cleared for active duty?”

“I think Coulson wanted to be the one to say this, but I can’t resist stealing his thunder,” Daisy replies, the smile obvious in her voice. “Congratulations, Agent Stilinski.”

Stiles manages to not do something ridiculous like cheer or fist bump. Instead, he grins, still a little stunned but also incredibly pleased. And a tiny bit proud of himself, too, but he thinks he’s allowed that.

“Thank you, Agent Johnson,” he replies, managing to keep at least 60% of the excitement out of his voice. “When am I needed?”

“As soon as you can get here, apparently,” she replies. “Which roughly translates to: get your ass moving. Welcome on board, Stiles.”

He thanks her again before hanging up. When he turns back to Steve, he’s watching him closely, mouth curled into a fond smile at the happiness on Stiles’s face.

“I’m being called in,” Stiles says. “For a mission.”

Steve sits up, reaching out to pull Stiles into a kiss. “Well done,” he murmurs. “I’m proud of you, agent.”

He grins, kissing Steve again. When he pulls back, he can see that pride, clear and beautiful on Steve’s face, but it doesn’t quite the mask the worry in those blue eyes.

Steve has been nothing but supportive of Stiles’s decision to join SHIELD. He’d asked if Stiles was certain that it was what he wanted, and when Stiles had promised it was, he’d been completely on board, supporting and encouraging Stiles every step of the way. 

Stiles knows it’s mostly because Steve is an incredibly good person and an even better partner, but he _also_ knows that Steve would be lying if he said it didn’t make things a little easier for their relationship. 

Before this, Stiles was just an ordinary civilian, which made him vulnerable. The kind of training he gets from SHIELD means he’s more capable of taking care of himself, which in turn means less worry for Steve.

But Stiles knows he’s concerned now. Of course he is. Stiles gets nervous every time Steve leaves for a mission, or to fight alongside the rest of the Avengers; super soldier or not, he worries about Steve getting hurt, or worse. 

And now it’s Stiles leaving on a mission.

“Hey,” he says softly, bumping his nose against Steve’s. “I’ll be okay. I -.”

“Don’t,” Steve interrupts, but his tone isn’t harsh. “Just…you can’t promise that, Stiles, and we both know it.”

“I mean…I doubt SHIELD are gonna send me on a super dangerous job for my first ever mission,” Stiles points out. “It’s probably a totally boring operation and I’ll just be a tag along more than anything.”

“Every mission has a risk level involved,” Steve reminds him quietly. “So please don’t make a promise you can’t keep. It…it would break me, if anything did happen to you.”

Stiles nods, smoothing his thumb over Steve’s jaw. “Okay. But I _can_ promise that I’ll do my absolute best to come back to you in one piece.” 

“I can take that,” he agrees. “Just…I love you, okay?”

He kisses him. “I love you too. And I really, _really_ wish that I could stay and finish what we started, but I’m probably already running late.”

Steve reluctantly lets him go. Stiles knows he needs to get moving, but he has to take the time for a quick, very _cold_ shower before he scrambles to get dressed. 

Before he reaches for the door, though, Steve catches his wrist.

“Wait,” he murmurs.

“Steve,” Stiles says softly. “I really have to go.”

“I know,” he replies. “But I just…I want to give you something before you go.”

“Steve, I _just_ got my dick to chill the fuck out, so -.”

Steve interrupts him with a quick kiss, then pulls away, moving to his dresser. He tugs open the top drawer and pulls out a box. Stiles goes still, suddenly very aware of his own heartbeat, because he knows what’s in that box even before Steve opens it.

He tugs out his dog tags, handling them incredibly carefully. They’re polished and gleaming and Stiles can’t manage to do anything but just stare, eyes wide, as Steve approaches him again.

He slips the chain over Stiles’s neck and then rests a hand over where the tags settle on Stiles’s chest, leaning in to kiss him.

“Steve,” he finally says, voice a little hoarse. “I…are you sure?”

“Surer than a hell of a lot of decisions I’ve made in my life,” Steve replies, not a single trace of doubt in his tone. “It’s something I’ve wanted for a while. You, in my tags. But I couldn’t find the right time. I think this is it.”

Stiles knows exactly what it means, for Steve to give him the tags, to _trust_ him with them. It makes his heart ache, so full of love and gratitude that for a second, he feels overwhelmed.

“Keep ‘em safe,” he says, kissing Stiles again. The _keep yourself safe_ goes unspoken, but it’s clear in those blue eyes when Steve slowly pulls back.

Stiles kisses him again, just once more, savouring it before he reluctantly drags himself away. He can’t let himself look back as he leaves the suite because he might do something stupid, like cry, or give in and drag Steve right back to bed, but he hasn’t got the time for that.

He has work to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: weapons, graphic violence, description of injuries, gore and blood.

There’s a car waiting for Stiles, which he’s incredibly thankful for, since it would take forever to get to the base on public transport.

When they get there, he knows he’s later than he should be, and he has to bite back his impatience as he goes through the security procedures. He holds himself still as he goes through the retinal scan, the thumbprint scan, the _blood_ scan – and he’ll never not flinch when the little spike stabs into his finger, he’s certain of it – and, finally, the voice scan.

“Mieczyslaw Stilinski,” he says, wrinkling his nose slightly. He hates that he has to use his legal name for this.

Finally, the elevator door slides open. 

When he gets to the control room, there’s seven other people there; Coulson, Agent Piper, Agent Kowalski, Jones, Joanna, Lowell (much to his dismay), and Allison (much to his delight).

He knows that top performing recruits tend to pass up to agents fastest, while those struggling are given more time and further training before they’re put in the field. Being one of those top few feels both humbling and incredible. 

He also knows that it’s likely more than the five of them have been given a higher clearance, which means that he’s been picked out of several to be taken on a mission. It feels almost surreal; Stiles can’t quite believe it, but that doesn’t matter. Right now, he needs to focus.

Still. Allison has not only passed alongside him, but they’re also going on their first mission together. He can’t help but give her a grin as he quickly takes the empty seat. She smiles back, a small curl of the mouth that manages to express how pleased she feels. 

Coulson raises an eyebrow and Stiles quickly smothers his grin, offering a sheepish expression instead.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I, uh. Hit a delay.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard Captain Rogers be called that before,” Coulson replies dryly, and a quiet laugh ripples across the table. “Will I be tried for treason?”

Stiles almost chokes on his own inhale, taken off guard. He coughs slightly, biting back a grin. “Uh…Agent Johnson told you that?”

“She thought I deserved a proper warning.”

He almost drops his head onto the table. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, but he has to suck it up and deal with the embarrassment. He’s just glad that it’s only a handful of people and not an actual roomful of agents or recruits.

Still. Lowell is smirking, the asshole. 

Thankfully, Coulson moves on, and Stiles forgets his embarrassment as he leans forward, his focus sharpening. 

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it,” Coulson says, smiling slightly at the appreciative chuckle that earns him before he continues, “Is this guy.”

He sets a stack of files on the table and they each grab one. Stiles flips it open, looking first at the photograph clipped inside the cover. 

“Warren Everett,” Coulson says. “Ex special Forces, ex SHIELD agent, and former Hydra spy.”

Stiles tenses, briefly, at the mention of Hydra. Allison’s hand finds his knee under the table, squeezing gently. 

He flicks his gaze over the file on Everett. He looks pretty unassuming; buff, sure, but with a bland face and thinning auburn hair. He’s lethal, though; just looking at his listed skills, known aliases, and the various hits linked to him has a shudder rolling down Stiles’s spine.

“He wasn’t loyal to Hydra,” Coulson adds. “I don’t believe Warren Everett is loyal to anyone but himself. After SHIELD fell and everything was leaked, Everett was one of the top level agents exposed as Hydra. In the aftermath, he hit the ground and he hasn’t been seen since, despite our efforts. But in our investigation, we found that he wasn’t just spying on SHIELD for Hydra; he was also selling information to third parties. He was doing the same to Hydra.”

“So, what, a triple spy?” Lowell asks.

“No. Just an opportunist. He wasn’t loyal to SHIELD or Hydra, but to whoever the highest bidder was. It’s no surprise he disappeared after the failure of Project Insight. I imagine SHIELD weren’t the only ones looking for him.”

“But now he’s cropped up,” Stiles says.

“We’ve received intel that suggests Everett has got his hands on something,” Coulson says, frowning. “We don’t know what, but we do know it’s to do with SHIELD, and that there were a lot of wealthy bidders interested in buying it.”

“Sell SHIELD secrets, hit a huge payday, and he’s set for life,” Piper mutters. “He’ll have the means to establish a whole new identity.” 

“Our sources have confirmed that Everett has found a buyer,” Coulson adds. “We don’t know who this person is, but they’re willing to pay over two million for whatever it is Everett’s selling.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Well, that’s not concerning at all.”

“The deal is going down here,” Coulson taps a set of co-ordinates. “At twenty three hundred hours.”

Lowell looks at the co-ordinates, brows furrowing slightly. “That’s…isn’t that in the Atlantic Ocean? A ship, then?”

Coulson nods. “You’ll be parachuting in. The place will have a lot of security, so be alert. Your job is to retrieve whatever it is Everett is selling. Bring Everett and his buyer in if you can, but Everett’s product is your priority. Someone will also need to get access to his phone, tablet, whatever he has on him and scrub it clean. We want to make sure he doesn’t have anything on us. Is that clear?”

Stiles nods his agreement along with the others and Coulson straightens. 

“Good. Agent Piper is the lead on this operation. She’ll go over the plan of attack with you once the jet is in the air. You’ve got half an hour before take-off. Go grab your gear. Oh,” he pauses, mouth twitching into a smile. “And you’ll need these.”

Silently, he passes out badges, and Stiles feels a burst of pride and happiness in his chest, though he does his best to conceal it and remain professional. 

He’d only held a SHIELD badge once before, when Coulson had recruited him. He’d had to give it back, since he had to pass training before he got his own, but for a brief minute, he’d held it in his hands and just _known_ with a kind of certainty he hasn’t often felt in his life that this is what he’s meant to do.

And now he has his own badge.

He flips open the leather wallet, staring at the badge, the gleaming metal of the SHIELD logo. On the other side, tucked behind a square of clear plastic, is his ID card and he can’t help but grin. Sure, they had to use his legal name, but that’s _him_ , his face, his name, _his_ clearance level.

He’s an agent.

He follows the others out of the room but doesn’t head straight for the room where the uniforms are kept. Instead, he takes a quick detour to one of the many locker rooms.  
It’s empty when he gets there. He glances at his phone; he has some time. Smiling, he pulls up one of his nude pictures, one he’d taken a while ago, naked and waiting on Steve’s bed, and he types a quick caption.

_Sorry I had to leave you hanging. Hoping this will make it up to you._

He sends it and opens his locker to stash his phone away, but it suddenly starts ringing, making him jump. The familiar ringtone has him grinning as he answers.

“Hey, stud,” he says fondly. “I take it you liked the picture?”

“Stiles,” Steve replies, a little breathless. “Are you alone?”

Stiles glances around the room, then turns so he’s facing his locker. “For now,” he replies. “I haven’t got much time. We have to leave soon.”

“Trust me,” Steve replies, humor curling around his words, followed by a quiet moan. “After the way you left me earlier, I won’t need long.”

The knowledge that Steve is touching himself sends a thrill of heat through Stiles. “Yeah?” he murmurs, dipping his voice lower. “I really wish I’d been able to stay to finish the job. I had plans, Steve. My mouth was just the start. I was going to draw it out, tease you, because I love those little desperate gasps you make when I do that. I’d finally let you come -.”

A bitten off, wrecked groan sounds over the phone. Then, for a beat or two, Steve just breathes, sounding happily blissed out.

Stiles blinks. “Huh. Okay.”

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “I was already on edge after earlier. Sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be. It just means I get to tell you about the rest of my plans when I get home.” He jumps slightly when he hears footsteps. “Shit, babe, I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you when the mission’s done, okay? I love you.”

He waits to hear Steve’s warm ‘I love you too’ before he hangs up, quickly putting his phone in his locker. He’s sure there’s a blush on his face, but he’s relieved to see it isn’t one of the senior agents, or, fuck, _Lowell_ who appears around the corner.

It’s Joanna, and she looks at him, then gives a little grin. 

“I interrupted something, didn’t I?” she said. “Sorry.”

“No, no, I was just…checking in. With someone.” 

One eyebrow lifts slightly. “Uh huh. Just so you know, for future reference? These lockers _really_ amplify whatever you say in here.”

“Oh god,” he manages. “Please don’t tell Coulson I just had phone sex when I’m supposed to be getting ready for a mission. I’ll be kicked out before I can utter ‘national icon’.”

She laughs and it brightens her whole face, brown eyes warm and shining with mirth. “Sure,” she agrees. “If you promise not to tell him that I just had kind of a freak out in the bathroom.”

“First mission nerves, right? It’s kind of terrifying.” Stiles offers a smile. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to know I’m not alone in feeling like I’m about to puke.”

“I figure it’s like a rollercoaster, right?” Stiles says, closing his locker. “You’re slowly creeping higher and higher, heart pounding, stomach about to drop out, palms sweating, and then suddenly you’re soaring down, wind in your ears and adrenaline sending your pulse into a frenzy, and you remember why you joined the queue in the first place.”

She looks at him for a moment. “I’m not sure if that’s incredibly wise advise, or the dumbest analogy I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. But did it help?”

“Surprisingly, yeah. Thanks.”

Stiles grins, pleased. “Come on,” he says. “We’d better go gear up.”

Allison and Lowell are already there when Stiles and Joanna step inside.

“Where did you disappear to?” Allison asks, already dressed in a uniform. 

“I had to stash my phone away,” Stiles replies. “I figure it’s bad form to bring your personal phone on a clandestine mission.”

She grins and shoves a pile of clothes at him. “Probably,” she agrees. “But you better get moving.”

Stiles quickly changes, his back to Joanna as she does the same. He’s not worn a field uniform before, but he’s read all about the specs on them. The designs vary from rank to rank and some agents, like Daisy and May, have their own distinctive uniform, but the fundamentals are the same. An impressive collaboration between FitzSimmons and Stark meant that the uniforms are sleek and flexible while providing much needed Kevlar protection. The fabric is even resistant to fire, to a certain point. 

Stiles’s uniform is navy and black. There’s a SHIELD logo on the right bicep, his rank designation underneath it. It fits well to his body without being restrictive and the material breathes. He can move easily in it. Allison and Joanna’s uniforms are almost identical but look slightly closer to the kind of suit Agent Morse wears. 

He pulls on his boots and clips the belt around his waist, then follows Joanna to the hanger. The quinjet is already fuelled and ready to go and Piper’s on board, in her own gear.   
Stiles straps himself into the seat next to Allison. Agent Kowalski is in the cockpit and once everyone is ready, the roof of the hanger slides open and the jet takes off with a smooth, practised ease. 

Once they’re in the air, Stiles relaxes and waits for Piper’s signal before he unbuckles himself. Next to him, Allison does the same. Her hair is tied back in a secure ponytail and her usual warm smile is missing as she focuses on Piper. She looks determined. She looks _ready_.

Stiles is more than a little bit relieved that he’s going into this with Allison at his side. He knows she will always have his back, just like he has hers.

“Okay, agents,” Piper says, pulling up something on her tablet. She turns it to show them what looks like blueprints of a ship. “Here’s our plan of attack.”

***

When they get close, Stiles flips open the weapons locker on the jet. 

He’s already got one weapon, tucked securely in his holster: the ICER the Avengers had given him for his birthday, calibrated perfectly for him. He’s used it in training and the lightweight feel of it in its holster is reassuring.

He clips two dendrotoxin grenades to his belt, slips a knife into the strap inside his boot, and stashes a garrotte into the little loop in the belt designed specifically to store it. He finds some spare ammunition cartridges for the ICER and tucks them away.

Next to him, Allison’s choice of weapons is almost identical: ICER, a garotte, and a knife tucked into her boot. But she adds four throwing knives, sheathed in her belt, and instead of dendrotoxin grenades, she opts for a miniaturized tazer rod that clips onto her belt without inhibiting her movement.

Lowell goes straight for a Beretta 92FS Compact, smirking slightly as he gives a pointed look at Stiles’s non-lethal firearm. Stiles doesn’t bother to roll his eyes, but he can’t help but grit his teeth as Lowell tucks another firearm into a secondary holster. He can’t believe he has to work with this asshole.

“Alright,” Piper says, handing out small earpieces. “Comms check.”

Stiles places the comms in his ear. Piper ensures the line is secure and clear and they’re all connected, then grabs a parachute pack, handing it to Stiles.

“You’re up, Agent.”

Stiles slips the parachute on, going through the safety checks almost on automatic. The back of the jet opens up and harsh wind whips around. 

He’s trained in parachute jumps. He knows what he needs to do, his mind running over it over and over, but it’s different. This is for real, parachuting into a hostile situation. Below him, the Atlantic Ocean stretches out, completely black under the night sky, cold and uninviting. 

His heart starts pounding, but he takes a deep breath.

And jumps.

Despite the adrenaline that explodes inside him, his body seems to move on automatic, and before he knows it, he’s landing quietly on the ship. He releases the parachute and moves for cover behind a large shipping crate.

It’s too dark to see Joanna parachute in until she’s close enough to land. She gives him a single nod and Stiles ducks out from behind the crate, keeping low as he moves quickly and quietly.

The first hostile goes down quickly; his back is to Stiles and he only turns when he hears the soft sound of footsteps. Before he can react, Stiles lands a blow to his throat, silencing any noise of alarm he could’ve made; the guy’s hands go to his neck as his body seizes slightly and he chokes, falling to his knees. A quick knee to the face and he’s down for the count. 

The second, third and fourth are in a cluster, heavily armed. Stiles doesn’t want to use his ICER until he’s certain the deck is clear; the gun is quiet enough that anyone inside the ship won’t hear, but it might draw the attention of other guards stationed outside. 

Two of them are facing out, silent as they look out over the dark water; the third has his back to them, gaze tracking over the crates. 

Stiles circles the crate to the group’s left, trying to be as quiet as possible as he climbs it. He stays in a crouch as he creeps to the edge, peering down. The men haven’t moved, and their guns are lowered.

Stiles carefully straightens from his crouch and jumps.

The first man goes down under the weight of Stiles; he drives his knee into the guy’s head as they hit the deck, cracking it into the floor hard enough to knock him out. He’s on his feet a second later as the other two swing towards him. A swift kick sends the gun flying from one man’s grip and Stiles lands an upwards palm strike to the second’s face. He drops the gun, hands flying to his broken nose, and it gives Stiles the time he needs to punch the first guy in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. A second swing, this time landing on his temple, and he crumples, unconscious.

Despite the damage to his nose, the other hostile gathers himself enough to make a grab for one of the guns on the floor. Stiles kicks the back of his knee hard enough that it gives out and he drops down; before he can move to block, Stiles gets him in a chokehold from behind, maintaining the pressure until he stops struggling and sags, eyes rolling shut.

There’s only two more left he needs to deal with. He sneaks up behind one, a push kick to his back knocking him forward, body bowing; Stiles follows, getting a grip on his hair, and shoves him face first into the metal railing. The _clang_ makes Stiles wince, but he leaves the guy out cold on the deck. 

The last guy’s already moving, alerted by the noise. There’s a gun holstered at his waist, but Stiles is nearly on him, so he doesn’t grab for it; instead, he turns into a swift hook kick.

Stiles slides to his knees, bending his back just enough for the guy’s boot to fly over the top of his head. He surges back to his feet, delivering a hard punch to the man’s gut as he moves upwards; he doubles over and Stiles brings his knee up into his face. He starts to go down and Stiles drives his elbow down into the back of his head to knock him out as he falls. 

He pauses, a little breathless. Movement makes him turn, ready to defend himself, but it’s just Joanna, meeting back up with him after she’s finished her own loop of the ship, taking out the security with swift, silent efficiency.

“Any problems?” he asks her.

She shakes her head. “Surprisingly easy. I’m a little disappointed.”

He can’t help but grin. “Well, let’s hope the guys inside offer you more of a challenge.” He lifts his wrist, speaking into the comms. “Deck is secure.”

“Clear to proceed, Agent Stilinski.” 

Joanna offers him a little grin. Any nerves she’d had back in HQ have disappeared; she looks like she’s enjoying herself. She gives a little flutter of her fingers and then turns, melting into the darkness. Her task is to secure the engine room, so she can shut the engines down; Stiles’s mission is to find whichever room inside the ship is Everett’s, scrub his technology and gather any further intel he might have. While he’s doing that, Kowalski, Allison, Jones and Lowell will storm the bridge, where the deal is going down, retrieve whatever it is Everett is selling, and bring both him and his buyer in.

They need to time it perfectly. The second the engines shut down, Everett and his hired security will know something’s going on and they’ll lose the element of surprise.

Most of the security are near the bridge, protecting the place where the deal will occur, so Stiles only has to dispatch of a couple as he heads deeper into the bowels of the ship, towards where the private crew quarters are. 

Ever since watching _Titanic_ , Stiles has always found huge ships creepy and claustrophobic. The passageways are narrow, with no ports, lit up a little too brightly, leaving corners and recessions in the walls in complete darkness. It’s eerie.

He knows he’s heading in the right direction when he starts seeing more guards. One thing the narrow space is good for is that, if he’s careful to be quiet, he can sneak up on them and take them down before they can raise the alarm or get a shot off. The hired goons create a path, leading Stiles to the right set of doors.

He brings one more man down with a quick blow to the carotid artery, then catches his body before it crumples; he carefully lowers him to the ground, careful not to make a noise.

Then, slowly, he leans around the corner into another corridor, just slightly, enough for him to take in a cluster of armed men guarding a single door.

_Bingo_.

Stiles presses his back flat to the wall again and grabs one of the dendrotoxin grenades. It won’t kill them; like the ICER, it’ll knock them out, and they’ll wake up later with no idea that time has even passed. It’s quiet enough that it won’t alert anyone else in the ship, either.

He removes the pin and with a quick, neat flick, sends the grenade rolling across the floor towards the guards.

He ducks back behind the safety of the wall just as one man starts to give a shout of warning that’s cut off a second later as the grenade goes off.

He hears the sound of bodies hitting the ground. Cautiously, he leans out, making sure that they’re all down for the count before he turns the corner.

He can’t help but grin slightly as he steps over the unconscious men. “Have a nice nap, guys,” he drawls. 

The door isn’t locked. Stiles pushes it open, stepping inside –

A knife swings towards his neck.

He catches the gleam of it, the flash of movement, and ducks to the side; his shoulder hits the metal doorframe, pain jarring through him at the impact. The knife glances off his skin, scoring a hot, stinging line across the side of his throat instead of sinking in. 

As the knife skids off his neck, the hand holding it extends past Stiles, and he grabs the wrist, bringing the guy’s elbow down onto his knee; there’s a shout of pain and the knife clatters to the floor. A blow to his ribs makes Stiles release his grip and another knife swipes out in an arc towards him.

Stiles throws himself back, tucking into a neat roll and coming back to his feet a few feet away. 

He can feel hot, slick blood dripping down his neck. The cut on his throat burns, but he knows it isn’t bad. His shoulder and ribs throb, but he can catch his breath at least, and look at the man who’d just come within an inch of killing him.

“We have a problem,” Kowalski’s voice rings over the comms. “I’ve got eyes on the bridge, but Everett isn’t there. He’s sent a lackey in his place. We don’t know where he is.”

“I do,” Stiles manages. And then he unholsters his ICER, aiming. 

Everett flings the knife in his hand.

Stiles twists to the side, hears the sound of the knife hitting the wall behind him, and Everett takes advantage of his momentary distraction, a hard kick knocking the ICER from Stiles’s grip. It clatters to the floor, skidding under one of the metal bunks. Stiles moves to meet Everett as the older man rushes him; he tries to get a grip on him, but Everett’s quick, snagging Stiles in a clinch. His knee snaps up into Stiles’s gut.

He hasn’t got time to focus on the pain, or the way his breath seizes. Everett is a stronger, more skilled, and more experienced opponent; he needs to _act_. His hands lift, grabbing hold of Everett’s upper arms, and he brings his own leg up, planting a foot on Everett’s stomach as he drops his weight; he hits the floor on his back, throwing Everett over his head. 

Everett comes up in a crouch, blocking Stiles’s kick as he pushes up, twisting to slam a fist into Stiles’s side, close to his kidney, as he dodges a punch. The pain is sudden and hot and all consuming; blackness creeps over Stiles’s vision for a second as he struggles to breathe, fighting the urge to vomit or pass out.

A strike to his jaw and Stiles’s head snaps around, his body reeling into the wall. Blood wells up in his mouth. 

Everett crowds him, using his elbows to deflect Stiles’s attempt at getting a hold on him. His hand finds Stiles’s throat, squeezing hard.

Stiles goes still – and then _spits_.

Despite clearly being a tough fucker _and_ a former agent of both SHIELD and Hydra, Everett isn’t expecting the dirty tactic. The sudden spray of blood across his face and into his eyes makes him jerk back a few steps, hands automatically reaching up to clear his vision. 

On the table to Stiles’s right, there’s a glass pitcher, the dregs of a drink left in the bottom. Stiles reaches out, fingers curling around the handle, and then he hurls it at Everett.  
The former agent lifts his arm at the last second, protecting his head, and the glass shatters against his forearm, shards cutting into his skin. Stiles presses forward, aiming a strike for Everett’s temple, wanting to bring him down fast before he recovers, but the blow is stopped by a rapid elbow block, bringing Stiles’s fist down before the elbow snaps up, into his face.

More blood trickles from Stiles’s mouth. He manages to step back, out of range of Everett’s palm strike, and delivers a push kick, just like Bucky taught him, hard and punishing, that knocks the older man back. 

When Everett’s hand closes around his wrist, intending to yank him in to a close body grab and throw, Stiles’s next move flashes up from years ago, a technique his dad had taught him when he was a teenager. He grips Everett’s hand and swings his arm, the manoeuvre enabling him to grab Everett’s wrist. The slimy fucker’s arm twists and Stiles pushes down, trying to force him to the ground.

Everett’s kick is too fast for Stiles to catch it. He lands a solid blow to Stiles’s already aching ribs, hard enough to force Stiles back and off balance. 

He’s too good. He’s too fast and he’s fucking strong. Despite his deceptively bland face, he’s built bigger than Steve, all bulging biceps and gross veins straining when he curls his hands into fists. He grins at Stiles’s expression, Stiles’s own blood staining his teeth. 

“This your first rodeo, kid?” he taunts. “Did they really send an amateur after me? You haven’t got the stones to take me down.”

Stiles goes for the garrotte, but it’s a mistake; the second he takes his eyes off Everett, the asshole moves like a flash. His twists into a spinning roundhouse kick and Stiles is knocked off his feet, hitting the ground hard, too fast for him to try and break his fall.

His head spins. He can’t breathe, body hurting, blood dripping down his chin, more cooling on his neck, sticky underneath his uniform. Panic is starting to crash through him and his ears start to ring as he tries and fails to get up, too disorientated to get his body to work properly.

He heaves himself forward by his elbows, trying to get space between them so he can gather himself, think over his next move.

Everett laughs. “SHIELD should know better than to send a _boy_ after me. They signed your death warrant, kid.”

Stiles stares at the floor, blinking sweat out of his eyes. 

No.

He can’t die here. He can’t die on his first fucking mission because of a slimy, double crossing, greedy son of a bitch. 

Underneath his uniform, Steve’s tags are trapped against his chest by the floor, the metal warmed by his skin and digging into his flesh.

He can’t die here. 

He can’t do that to Steve.

His vision stops blurring at the edges as he finally drags in a deep lungful of air. He curls his hands on the floor, feels glass gather in his fist, wisps of pain stinging his palm as the sharp edges bite into his skin. 

Everett’s hand grips his leg, hauling him back.

Stiles twists onto his back and doesn’t take more than a split second to aim before he flings the handful of glass. 

The pained shout Everett makes is shrill, his hands reaching up, fluttering uselessly in front of his face as he realizes it’s not a good idea to try and pluck the shards out of his eyes.

Stiles lunges at him, slamming a hand into Everett’s face, pushing the glass in deeper. He feels blood under his palm, Everett’s scream muffled by his fingers, and Stiles pulls back. He presses his arm over Everett’s throat, pushing down, giving it everything he has until Everett passes out.

He rolls off the unconscious body and gives a tired shove, forcing Everett onto his front. He retrieves a set of SHIELD issue cuffs from his belt and snaps them around Everett’s wrists, then drags himself back until he can lean against the wall.

“Everett’s down,” he says into the comms, breathless. 

There’s a pause. “Good job, Agent Stilinski,” Piper says, surprise leaking into her tone. “Status report.”

“Well. I feel like roadkill.”

“Maintain your position,” she says. “Back up will be there soon.”

As she says it, the lights suddenly go out, pitching the room into darkness. Stiles can feel that subtle shift and knows the engines are down. Joanna managed her own mission, which is a relief.

Kowalski, Allison, Jones and Lowell will be moving, taking advantage of the darkness and their element of surprise to bust everyone in the bridge.

A minute later, the emergency lights flicker to life, painting everything with a dull, reddish hue. 

It’s enough for him to see the two, hulking men step into the room.

The lighting may be dim, but he can tell they’re twins. They’re both ridiculously tall, around 6’5, and they’re built like fucking mountains. They’re both bald and ugly sons of bitches, with flinty eyes and nasty, shark like smiles on their faces.

Behind them, the corridor is littered with the other guards, still out cold, but the dendrotoxin has already worn off from these two. As Stiles watches, one of them slams the door shut behind them, hard enough for the metal to bend and warp.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Stiles mutters. He speaks into the comms as he drags his aching body up, leaning against the wall for support. “Kowalski, I’ve got two enhanced dudes here. Back up would be really, really great right about now.”

There isn’t a response, which means the others are still busy in the bridge, but hopefully Joanna isn’t occupied and is already on her way.

“Guys,” Stiles says to the twins. “Word of advice for you: pumping yourself full of steroids _really_ isn’t great for the little guy.”

Thing One actually _snarls_ at that, face twisting into something brutal as he lunges forward. Given his bulk, he’s slower than Everett had been, but he’s obviously really fucking strong. 

Stiles’s mind rattles with all the things Bucky and Natasha have taught him. That he needs to be fast, that he needs to use these fuckers’ own mass against them, that he needs to rely on tactics instead of strength when he’s up against someone a lot tougher than him.

His body really doesn’t _want_ to be fast right now, but he has no choice. This isn’t sparring. He can’t tap out. They won’t pull their punches.

They’ll kill him.

He ducks out of the way of Thing One’s punch, delivering two quick, sharp jabs to his side as he twists until he’s behind the living mountain. Before he can recover, Stiles flips into a kick that lands solidly against the back of that nice shiny head.

Nice, shiny, _hard as fucking steel_ head.

Stiles knows his bones aren’t broken; he can put his weight on his foot just fine, but _ow_. He has the brief satisfaction of watching Thing One’s head ricochet off the side of the top bunk bed before he senses rather than hears Thing Two come up behind him, reaching for him as Thing One turns, looking thoroughly pissed off. 

Stiles thinks fast; he reaches back, getting a lock around Thing Two’s neck, and lifts his body up. He slams both feet into Thing One, sending him reeling back, and then lets his body drop as he pulls on Thing Two. The momentum of his weight falling helps him to throw the larger man, and the asshole goes crashing into the beds, landing in a heap on the bottom bunk.

The good thing is that they’re clearly not skilled fighters, relying on their strength instead. 

The shitty thing is that, judging by the battered door, their strength is enhanced enough that if even one blow lands, it could be curtain call for Stiles.

He grabs the metal railings on the top bunk, pulling himself up and swinging his legs forward, boots slamming into Thing Two’s face as he tries to clamber off the bottom bunk. His head snaps back, blood bursting from his nose, and Stiles drops; Thing One’s fist flies over the top of Stiles’s head, knuckles audibly breaking as they hit the bunk bed instead, the metal giving like fucking butter under the force.

Stiles kicks back, hard, striking Thing One’s knee hard enough for it to crack and buckle, bringing him down into a crouch. 

There’s a metal tray on the table where the pitcher had been. Stiles snatches it up and turns as he swings it, slamming it hard into the back of the fucker’s head. He rocks forward, disorientated, and Stiles takes advantage, dropping the tray so he can throw himself onto the guy, legs over his shoulders, locking in a tight hold.

He snags the garotte from his belt and pulls it tight around the thick neck between his thighs, pulling with all of his strength.

Thing One reaches up, choking as he scrabbles uselessly at his neck. He staggers back, slamming into the wall, and Stiles hisses out a pained breath at the impact, but he doesn’t relax his hold at all.

His muscles ache from the strain, but he doesn’t give in to the exhaustion. Finally, _finally_ , Thing One sags, dropping first to his knees, and then face first to the floor, unconscious. 

Stiles slots the garotte back in his belt. Thing Two is clambering out of the bunk bed, mouth a tight, furious slash on his face, eyes burning with a kind of rage that’s almost as terrifying as Hulk in a bad mood.

Stiles throws himself forward into a roll, grabs his ICER from under the bunk, and then shifts to his back, arms lifting as he aims and fires.

Thing Two goes down like a sack of rocks.

For a second, Stiles doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

Then, slowly, he takes a deep, shuddering breath and gets to his feet. He unloads several more rounds into the rage twins, making sure that this time, it’s enough for them to _stay_ down.

He kind of wants to throw up a little bit. Instead, he keeps a tight grip on the ICER, just in case, and starts to explore the room.

His search turns up Everett’s phone and laptop. Stiles sets them both on the bottom bunk, using Thing Two as a convenient bench as he sits. 

Everett’s security is fucking _shit_. It takes him less than five minutes to get into both the phone and the laptop, and only twice that to find every scrap of useful information on both gadgets. 

The phone he can take with him, give it to Coulson to get the intel off it. The laptop is too bulky though, not exactly great for a quick getaway if they need one, so Stiles jams a drive into the port, loading everything that’s on the computer onto it. 

Then he tugs out the drive, replaces it with a nifty little device Piper gave him, and watches as it eats away everything on the laptop in a matter of seconds, scrubbing it completely clean. No matter what Everett does, he’s not getting any of that stuff back.

He slips the drive into a secure pocket in his uniform and then leans forward, pressing his forehead against the thin mattress on the bed. The scratchy blanket itches his skin, rubbing at the raw bruises already blooming on his face, but he can’t move. The adrenaline starts to seep out of him, leaving him in pain, exhausted and a little spaced out from having to fight so fucking hard for his life.

Slowly, over the ringing in his ears, he becomes aware of a voice in his ear. “Stilinski?... _Stilinski?_...Status report, damn it, Agent -.”

“I’m here,” he manages. “Sorry. Definitely not dead. Steve isn’t gonna drop kick you into next Sunday, don’t worry.”

Piper’s relief is audible in her sigh. “The others have got everything wrapped up on the bridge. Are the enhanced guards taken care of?”

“Yeah. Don’t know how long they’ll be out for, though, so…I’m not exactly saying 'please rush', but, uh, yeah, _do_.”

“Kowalski and Argent are already on their way.”

Stiles slumps back at that, relieved. The body underneath him twitches, not quite waking up, but Stiles isn’t taking any chances; he fires another shot into the guy’s head without looking.

“Stiles?” Allison appears in the doorway, her own ICER in her hands, ready to fight. “Stiles, are you…?”

She stops, takes in the sight of the room and Stiles, and slowly lowers the gun.

Stiles offers a little wave. “Hi.”

There’s blood dripping from a wound at her hairline, her lip is split, and she’s favouring her left side as she approaches him, eyes wide. But she’s alive. 

“So,” he says. “How’d it go on your end?”

“Could’ve been better,” she replies. “Could have been worse. I’ve now learned a lesson to _not_ underestimate sixty year old women with canes. She kinda kicked my ass, Joanna had to step in and help.” She eyes Everett’s prone form. “You?”

“Well, you know,” he says. “Could’ve been better. Could have been worse.”

She gives a laugh at that, the sound edged with a little panic. “Fuck. I thought you were _dead_ , you asshole.” 

“I’m too stubborn for that,” he reminds her. “But a doctor would be really, really nice right about now.” 

Kowalski’s busy getting Thing One cuffed, using the tougher ones that Fitz designed specifically for people with enhanced strength. Stiles lets Allison haul him to his feet and out of the way so Kowalski can get Thing Two equally secure.

Their little team are the first offence, using stealth rather than force to get the job done. A second, larger team will already be on their way to detain all of the assholes on board, including Everett and his juiced up lackeys, which means Stiles doesn’t have to wait.

Once they reach the deck, Lowell is there. Surprisingly, he moves to Stiles’s other side, helping him shuffle towards the ladder waiting for them. He looks pretty bruised himself, expression grim. Joanna is the only one unharmed, but she looks just as subdued.

Yeah. It’s been a pretty effective wake up call to exactly what being a secret agent entails.

He wonders if this is where some people decide they can’t handle it. If this is where lots of new agents call it quits and walk away from the clandestine life. 

Stiles finds himself feeling the exact opposite.

Because the information Everett had been about to sell is a list of active, undercover SHIELD agents. Exposed, they wouldn’t have a chance to get off the grid before they’re taken out.

But because of them, that won’t happen. The leak is sealed. The agents are safe. Everett doesn’t pose a threat anymore.

Their first mission. And they’ve _succeeded_.

The bruises, the pain, the brutal reality of having his life come so close to being snuffed out…it’s all worth it.

This is what he’s meant to be doing.

It’s not the easiest climb of his life, especially when the ladder moves and the wind batters at him. But, finally, Joanna is helping him into the quinjet. He moves out of the way so the rest of the team can get on board and then just sprawls on the floor, closing his eyes.

The second team is already closing in. The ship is secure. None of the people on board are going anywhere except for jail.

Piper glances back at them from the cockpit, giving Stiles a quick once over before giving Kowalski a nod. 

As the jet sets a course for HQ, Kowalski kneels next to Stiles, carefully helping him into a sitting position. He’s trained in field first aid and he’s actually pretty reassuring as he checks Stiles’s injuries, making sure there’s nothing broken, and nothing that constitutes an emergency. Then he starts cleaning the cuts on Stiles’s palm.

“So, that was fun,” Stiles offers after a while. 

“Getting your ass kicked was fun?” Lowell says, mouth tipping slightly into a smirk.

“Uh, excuse you, but I _won_ , thank you very much.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re tougher than you look, Stilinski.”

“Watch it. That was almost a compliment.”

“The Director was right,” Kowalski says, amusement bleeding into his accented voice. “You do perform better under duress.”

Stiles laughs, wincing when his ribs throb in protest. “That’s one way to put it, I guess.”

“He’s just really stubborn,” Allison says, a fond smile on her face. “And disturbingly violent. Not to mention a dirty fighter.”

Stiles closes his eyes, smiling. “Fight dirty. Fight viciously. Fuck them up with _extreme_ prejudice.”

“That’s the motto,” she agrees, reaching out to gently squeeze his ankle.

Kowalski checks Stiles’s mouth. It’s not bleeding anymore, but he’d had to spit out a gross amount of blood earlier. His teeth are, thankfully, all intact and undamaged, but he’s cut the inside of his cheek and split his lip open.

Kowalski carefully cleans both cuts and then sits back, looking just as exhausted as Stiles feels.

Finally, the quiet hum of the jet’s engines chase away the last of Stiles’s adrenaline, and he lets himself drift.

***

When they get back to the base, Piper starts to lead him straight to medical, but Stiles gently nudges her hand away.

“I’m good,” he says. “I’ll get patched up back at the tower. I just wanna get debrief over and done with.”

She gives him a dubious look but nods. He’s always liked Piper, but the fact that she respects his decision instead of pulling rank makes him like her a hell of a lot more. They go straight to Coulson’s office, knocking.

There’s a pause, then, “Come in.”

Stiles follows Piper inside the office, the others piling in behind him, but he stops, blinking in surprise when he sees that Coulson’s not alone.

Hunter raises an eyebrow as he catches sight of Stiles’s condition, Clint gives a lazy wave, and Steve gets to his feet. His gaze slowly tracks over Stiles, taking in the uniform, the blood, his bruised and battered face. 

Stiles can’t seem to bring himself to give a damn about professionalism. He closes the space between them, leaning in to the solid, reassuring warmth of Steve’s body.

“Hi,” he murmurs. “What are you doing here?”

“Classified,” Steve replies quietly. His brows pull together, concern sliding behind his blue eyes as he reaches up. He gently runs a thumb over the swelling in Stiles’s face, taking in the mottled bruising and the cuts. 

Clint shakes his head. “Christ, Stiles. Your first ever mission and you come back looking like a crash test dummy.” 

“Yeah, well,” he drawls. “You should see the other guys.”

“You _won_?” Clint asks, dubious. “Because, no offence, but you really don’t look like you won.”

“He did,” Piper says, a smile in her tone. “He took down two enhanced bodyguards and Everett.”

“Alive?” Coulson checks.

“Blind,” she replies. “But alive.”

“Bloody hell,” Hunter mutters. “Violent little bastard, isn’t he?”

“Only when I have to be to survive,” Stiles grumbles. 

“He needs a codename,” Hunter says. “Like the Cavalry, or Mockingbird. I personally vote for ‘Grim Reaper.”

“I didn’t _kill_ anybody. I just…maimed them, a little.”

Steve doesn’t smile. He carefully grips Stiles’s chin, turning his head so he can examine the cut on his neck, tacky with blood and still stinging. “This was done by a knife.” It’s not a question.

“Uh, yeah. Everett tried to stab a hole in my neck. Not one for pleasantries, that guy.” Stiles pauses when Steve closes his eyes briefly, unhappiness turning his expression bleak as he processes just how close Stiles had been to bleeding out on a ship in the middle of the freaking Atlantic. “Hey,” he murmurs. “If it makes you feel any better, I spat blood in his face, and shoved glass in his eyes. And then I choked him out.”

“Actually, that doesn’t make me feel any better,” Steve says softly. He swallows and presses a careful kiss to Stiles’s forehead. “I don’t think anything will make seeing you like this any better.”

“It’s worse than it looks,” Stiles promises. “Really. Most of the blood isn’t mine. Bruised ribs, a few cuts that don’t even need stitches, and a nice shiner on my face. Nothing serious. In a few weeks, I’ll look good as new. I’m _fine_. I promise.”

Clint leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. “Coulson,” he says. “You send baby agents on their first mission and it ends up with them looking like roadkill. What the hell?”

“Our intel was wrong,” Coulson replies evenly. “Everett’s room was supposed to be empty. Kowalski was supposed to make the arrest. None of the other agents involved were meant to go up against Everett, especially not alone. And we didn’t know anything about some of his hired security being enhanced. If we had, we wouldn’t have sent Stiles or the others in.”

“But we succeeded,” Stiles offers. “So, yay? I mean. My first ever mission. And we all kicked ass. I feel like that’s worth celebrating, right?”

“You did good, mate,” Hunter says. “All of you.”

Stiles leans into Steve, closing his eyes. He needs to debrief, and if Steve is here, it means he has important business to attend to as well, but he wants nothing more than to go back to the tower, take a long, hot bath, and curl up in bed with Steve.

“I still have your tags,” he murmurs. “Do you need them back?”

Steve’s hand finds the back of Stiles’s head. “Keep them,” he replies quietly. “I like knowing you’re wearing them.” 

Stiles opens his eyes, looking at Steve. The concern there, the unhappiness that he’s clearly trying to bite back because he wants to support Stiles even if the sight of the bruises and blood makes him worry, has a tenderness unfurling in Stiles’s chest.

“This is my choice, remember?” he says softly.

Steve draws him closer, wrapping his arms around him, careful not to put any pressure on Stiles’s bruised ribs. “I know.”

***

Stiles gets through debrief with the others, but by the time he’s done, he feels almost foggy with exhaustion. 

Allison drives him back to the tower; she doesn’t just drop him off, but actually parks and follows him inside. 

“Are you staying?” he asks.

She nods. “If that’s okay.”

He steps into the elevator and leans into her slightly, resting his head on her shoulder. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I don’t really wanna be alone right now.”

Steve being needed on a mission is kind of sucky timing. Highly classified, but obviously pretty tough if it requires someone with Steve’s strength, speed and combat skills to lead it. Clint’s going with him, which suggests the mission also needs someone with his level of marksmanship. 

He knows Steve had been a little reluctant, given the state he’d seen Stiles in, but he’d told him to go. After all, he’s been just as bruised after some particularly brutal sessions on the mat with Bucky and Natasha; the only difference is the blood and cuts, and they’re really not that bad. 

Allison had also declined to go see medical. Stiles knows that they can call in one of the doctors on Stark’s payroll, but he doesn’t really want to. It’s nearly dawn and he just wants to crawl into bed and forget everything for a few hours.

To his surprise, the lights are on in his suite. Natasha’s in the kitchen, dressed in pyjama bottoms and an oversized, off the shoulder black sweater, her short hair a mess of curls. She glances up at them as the door closes behind Stiles.

“Clint called,” she explains. “Said you might need me to take a look at your injuries.”

“I’m not a child,” Stiles replies. “And since when are you a doctor?”

“I’m not,” she says evenly. “But I have a lot of experience with injuries.”

He shrugs slightly, conceding, and winces when his shoulder and ribs throb. Natasha catches the grimace and pointedly arches an eyebrow at him as she takes a sip of coffee.

“Clint wasn’t kidding when he said you look like you went ten rounds with Thor,” she remarks.

“I _feel_ like it,” he admits. “It really isn’t that bad, though. I think it’s more a mental thing, you know? Fighting like that was…different.”

“It was real,” she agrees quietly. 

He nods. Allison moves to pour them both a cup of coffee as Stiles sits down, letting Natasha step into his space so she can examine his injuries.

“The cuts have already been checked,” he tells her. “And cleaned and stuff.”

She nods, tipping his head slightly so she can look at the bruising on his face and his split lip. Then she tugs gently at this shirt.

“Take it off.”

“Wow, Nat, that’s so forward of you.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Do you really want me to hit you right now?”

Yeah, no, definitely not. He carefully takes off his shirt, dropping it to the floor. He looks down at his torso. Like he’d expected, there’s a swath of dark, mottled bruises spanning his ribs, down his side and across his stomach, black and purple and angry looking. 

“Jesus, Stiles,” Allison says softly. 

“What did they _do_ to you?” Natasha asks curiously. 

He tells her. Most of it feels like a blur, but he can remember the fight with Everett in sharp detail. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it. As she listens, Natasha carefully probes at his ribs and around his kidney, then pushes gently on his stomach. It hurts, but he knows it isn’t serious. He’d be feeling a lot worse if it was.

“You did well,” she says finally. 

“Well?” he repeats. “I mean, I don’t like to brag, but I took down two enhanced beefcakes without them landing a single punch.”

“Only because they weren’t trained and were sloppy with anger,” she replies. “If they’d had more sense, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“Well, that’s flattering. Thank you, Natasha.”

“You’ve only been doing this for seven months,” she says. “You’ll learn.” She steps back. “You’re lucky. He missed your kidney.”

“It didn’t _feel_ like it. I thought I was gonna pass out.”

“If he’d actually hit your kidney with that kind of force, you would be pissing blood. I don’t think you have any internal bleeding, either, and your ribs are bruised, but not broken.”

“So, I’ll live?” he says, smiling.

“You’ll live,” she agrees, rolling her eyes. “A few weeks, some painkillers, and you’ll be fine.”

Stiles nods, watching as she grabs some ice from the freezer, wrapping it in towels to make two ice packs. She presses one to his ribs and the other, carefully, to his swollen cheek, waiting for him to take them and keep them against his skin before she turns her attention to the cut on his neck.

“Will it scar?” he asks.

She turns to the sink, running a cloth under water, and then gently cleans up the dried blood on Stiles’s skin. 

“No,” she replies. “It’s not deep. The knife just grazed you. Stings, but it won’t scar. Show me your hand.” 

Obediently, he holds out his hand. Kowalski had cleaned the cuts on his palm from the glass and they’re not deep, but they sting and itch slightly. She gives a satisfied nod and tucks his hand back over the ice pack on his ribs. 

“No scars,” she says. “You should ice your ribs regularly for the next few days.”

Stiles nods. “Thanks, Nat.”

She carefully applies a dressing to the cut on his neck before she turns to Allison, expression expectant, and the younger woman blinks, mug of coffee pausing halfway to her mouth.

“Oh, I’m okay. Really.”

Natasha eyes the dried blood on Allison’s face. “Did you get the cut seen to?”

Allison shakes her head and obediently sits down when Natasha pulls out a stool for her. Stiles sips his coffee, wincing slightly at the sting in his mouth, and watches Natasha carefully clean the cut on Allison’s hairline. Luckily, it’s not deep and doesn’t need stitches, but Stiles notices the way Natasha’s thumb lingers, for the briefest second, at Allison’s temple before she steps back, expression unfathomable.

Stiles clears his throat. “Thanks, Natasha.”

“You should rest,” she replies, heading for the door.

Once she’s gone, Stiles finishes his coffee and puts their empty mugs in the dishwasher. Allison is quiet as she follows him into the bedroom; he rummages in his dresser and hands her a pair of his sweatpants and a plaid shirt.

“There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet under the sink,” he murmurs.

She nods, slipping into the bathroom. She doesn’t take long, returning freshly showered, her damp hair curling around her shoulders. The sweatpants are too big on her; she’s had to roll the legs up a couple of inches, and she’s tied the drawstrings as tightly as possible at her hips. The sleeves of his shirt flap over her hands; she hasn’t bothered to roll them back to her wrists, and Stiles gets it, understands that sometimes covering your hands and snuggling into something that’s big and comfy is a comfort when you feel vulnerable.

Stiles showers quickly, careful of his bruises. He instantly feels a hell of a lot better, just for having washed away sweat, blood and grime. He feels clean, refreshed, but practically dead on his feet. He tugs on the softest pyjama pants he owns – the fabric still smarts a little when it rubs against the bruises on his stomach – and one of Steve’s shirts. He brushes his teeth carefully, rinsing away the copper taste that’s been lingering on his tongue, cloying in the back of his throat. The sharp mint stings the cuts, but the ache is preferable to the taste of blood.

Allison’s already in the bed when he leaves the bathroom, curled up on Stiles’s side, wet hair fanned out on his pillow. 

“JARV, hit the lights,” he murmurs and the room goes dark, the blackout curtains firmly keeping out the flat dawn light.

He climbs into the bed, scooting towards the middle. Allison’s back is to him, but she slides a hand behind her, fingers searching the mattress until they hit his arm. He takes her hand, loosely linking their fingers, and feels the tension start to seep out of his body.

Together, they fall asleep.

***

He wakes at the sound of footsteps.

He tenses and, where Allison’s body is tucked in against his own, her back to his chest, he feels her do the same. 

But as the bed dips, Stiles recognizes the smell of Scott’s shampoo and the comforting warmth of his best friend’s body and he relaxes again, not even bothering to open his eyes as Scott climbs into bed. He scoots in until he’s got Stiles sandwiched in between him and Allison, his arm draped lightly over Stiles’s thigh so he can rest a hand on Allison’s hip.

He doesn’t say a word, just presses his forehead against the back of Stiles’s neck, and Stiles lets himself drift again, comforted and safe between two of the people he loves and trusts most in the world.

***

The second time he wakes up, he’s on his back. Allison’s head is pillowed on his chest, careful to avoid his bruised ribs, and Scott is tucked in against Stiles’s other side, one hand smoothing gently over Allison’s still damp hair, his other arm underneath Stiles’s head, bent just enough that it’s not even the slightest bit uncomfortable.

Stiles knows they’re both awake, too, but for a few minutes, no one interrupts the peaceful quiet of the room. He traces his fingers up and down Allison’s spine and tips his head just enough to bump his nose fondly against Scott’s shoulder.

He can’t bring himself to move further in order to look at the clock, though, body aching too much to sit up. 

Instead, he murmurs, “JARV?”

“Good afternoon, Stiles. The time is currently 2:47pm. The weather in New York is 44.6 degrees and cloudy, with rain forecast.” 

The quiet, soothing tones of the AI is both familiar and comforting. Stiles yawns, carefully stretching his tight jaw. The cut inside his mouth stings, but the swelling seems to have gone down a little, which is a relief.

He looks at Scott, sees dark eyes watching him. “Hi,” he manages. His voice is hoarse, grating like a rusty gate; his throat feels dry and gross. 

“Allison messaged me,” Scott murmurs. “Told me you were hurt. I came straight over.”

Stiles is incredibly grateful that Scott did. He knows that he’ll always be there for Stiles, will always come for him if Stiles needs, the same as he would for Scott, but he hadn’t wanted to bother Scott so early in the day. But having him here is exactly what Stiles needs. Scott knows him so well, knows exactly the kind of comfort Stiles needs.

“You don’t have work?” Stiles asks.

“I took the day off.”

“Scott.”

“Stiles,” Scott replies in the same, disapproving tone. He lifts his hand from Allison’s hair so he can press incredibly gentle fingertips to the bruised side of Stiles’s face. “You look like you were in a car crash. Of course I’m gonna be here. Deaton won’t mind one day.”

Scott puts in endless hours at the clinic when he’s not at school or studying, working towards finishing his qualification in veterinary medicine, so Stiles knows it’s true. Deaton won’t begrudge him taking one day off. The dude is pretty hard to read on a good day and downright annoying on others, but Stiles thinks he likes Scott. 

“What happened?” Scott asks quietly.

Stiles swallows. He’d been hoping Scott wouldn’t ask, except of course he has. If their roles were swapped, he’d want to know exactly how Scott got hurt. But he can’t tell him. Even if it wasn’t classified, even if he hadn’t agreed to a dozen different rules when he joined SHIELD, he still can’t tell Scott. Any information he gives Scott on SHIELD matters could put his best friend in danger and Stiles won’t ever do that.

Scott easily reads Stiles’s expression. “Right,” he says, a sliver of hurt in his voice. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I’m okay,” Stiles offers urgently, because this, at least, he _can_ tell Scott. “Really. It looks worse than it is. No breaks, no stitches, and no scars. I’ll be good as new in a few weeks.”

Scott looks at him for a long moment. There’s an aching kind of sadness in his gaze, a smile completely devoid of happiness touching his mouth.

“Stiles,” he says quietly. “You’re battered black and blue and there’s a bandage on your neck, and you say that like it’s a good thing. Because you didn’t need stitches.”

“Scott, c’mon. I’ve had worse back when we were on the high school lacrosse team. Remember when I dislocated my thumb when we were running drills?”

“This is different,” Scott replies. “You could have _died_. I know you can’t tell me anything, but I’m guessing whoever did this to you wanted to kill you.”

Stiles closes his eyes, guilt sliding between his ribs, cutting into his heart. He knows exactly what Scott is trying to say, knows exactly why he looks so lost when he searches Stiles’s face, memorizing each and every bruise on his skin. 

He’s been there. He’s been the one sat at home while his dad went out to work, knowing each and every time that his dad might not come home, that his dad might get hurt, or killed, or just disappear entirely, because Beacon Hills might have been a small town but _shit still happened_ and he’d be alone, unable to help, useless to stop his dad from putting his life in danger.

He feels it with Steve every time he goes to battle, that twisting, gut wrenching fear, the cold knowledge that the kiss he presses to Steve’s mouth before he leaves might be their last.

It takes a lot of guts and a lot of dedication to be the one going out there to face life-threatening, terrifying things.

But it’s just as difficult to be the one left at home, wondering if the person you love will make it back in one piece. 

And now that’s Scott. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says quietly. “I know…I know it isn’t easy on you.”

“I remember when we were sixteen and you used to bitch if you grazed your knees on the lacrosse field,” Scott replies. “And now you’re lying there, looking like you should be in _hospital_ , shrugging it off like it’s nothing. That scares me, Stiles.”

Stiles knows it hasn’t been easy for Scott. He’d supported Stiles’s decision to join SHIELD right from the start; he’d told Stiles that he was proud and he’d _meant_ it, too. His encouragement has been one of Stiles’s strongest motivators throughout the whole training process.

But he also knows that Scott’s missed him. With SHIELD eating up a lot of his time, they haven’t been able to hang out as much. Plus, Stiles has naturally been spending more time with Allison, their friendship growing even closer due to them training side by side, and he knows that it isn’t exactly easy for Scott, to feel that change in not only his friendship with Stiles, but with Allison, too.

“I’m a pretty shitty friend, huh?” Stiles says. 

“No,” Scott replies, shaking his head. “I’m not…I mean, yeah, okay, sometimes it really sucks. But I know this is something you have to do. And I am proud of you, Stiles. Seriously, I couldn’t be prouder of you. But we’ve always looked out for each other. Ever since we were kids, remember? Always. Except now you’re walking into situations where I _can’t_ have your back. You’re going somewhere that I can’t follow. That’s difficult to accept, sometimes.”

“I can watch my own back,” Stiles says softly. 

“Of course you can. You’ve always been able to look after yourself. But you’ve never _had_ to, because you’re my best friend. Because you’re my brother. And you’re changing, Stiles. For the better, maybe, but…you’re becoming like them. You’re becoming the kind of person who can hurt other people. The kind of person who can kill, if necessary, who can willingly put themselves in a dangerous situation. The kind of person who can take the injuries you’ve got right now and just shrug it off like it’s no big deal. And that…that’s kind of fucking scary, Stiles.”

Stiles swallows. “I’m still me, Scotty. I’m still your best friend. I still make coffee way too bitter. I still put pineapple on my pizza, even though you think that’s a heinous crime against food, and I still forget to tie my laces when I’m half-asleep in the mornings and end up tripping until someone reminds me to sort my damn shoes out. I can still kick your ass at MarioKart and steal all of your beer and make you laugh until you snort soda out of your nose. I’m still _me_ , Scott, and I’m still your Stiles, I promise.”

“I know that,” Scott promises. “I do. It’s just…an adjustment. I need time to accept it, okay? And I’m always going to be concerned when you come home looking like this. I’m always going to worry when you go on missions. But I can accept it and I can support it, because I get it. I get _you_. Just promise me something.”

Stiles hesitates. If Scott asks him to promise to always come home alive or safe, or to always be completely careful with his own wellbeing, that’s not something he can truthfully promise, and he won’t lie to Scott. Not ever.

Scott must see it in his face because he gives a gentle squeeze to Stiles’s hand.

“Promise me you won’t leave me behind.”

“I promise, Scott,” he replies. “I know things are changing, that our paths are little different now, but it’s still you and me. It’ll always be you and me.”

“I know.” Scott scoots closer until he can hug him. After a moment, he says, “So. Agent Stilinski, huh?”

“Yeah. Still kinda wrapping my head around it.” 

“I knew you’d make it,” Scott says. “You’ve always kicked ass, even before you needed SHIELD to help you do it. I never had a doubt that you’d pass training. I’m super proud, you know that, right? We should celebrate. You know, when you don’t look like a walking, talking bruise.”

“Sounds good,” Stiles agrees. “Thanks, buddy.”

A pause, then, “Are you two done with your heart to heart yet?” Allison asks. “Because I really need to pee, but I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

Scott gives a little snort of laughter and Stiles grins, shifting so Allison can untangle herself from the both of them. She disappears into the bathroom and Stiles stretches out.  
He feels better for having spent some time with the both of them. The three of them haven’t had a sleepover since Allison and Scott broke up. Maybe they’re too old to cuddle like overgrown teddy bears, but they’ve always been physically affectionate. Platonic snuggle piles are the absolute bomb, especially since Steve isn’t here. The comfort and love and reassurance of being sandwiched between the warm, familiar weight of two of his best friends is the best way to cheer him up.

When Allison returns, she sits cross legged on the bed. Scott eyes the cut at her hairline and her split lip. He doesn’t need to say anything; the two of them exchange a long, soft look, Allison silently reassuring him that she’s okay, Scott showing his comfort anyway.

The break up has been good for them. There’s still love there, but not romantic or sexual anymore. Their friendship is as strong as Scott and Stiles’s, more resilient for no longer depending on each other quite so much. Several months down the line and Scott can cuddle with Allison and she can give him that soft, fond smile, and it’s comfortable rather than awkward. 

“Do you have to go in today?” Scott asks.

Allison shakes her head. “I don’t have to go back in until Monday.”

“And I’ve been given until Wednesday off,” Stiles says. “For the whole rest and recuperation thing.”

Scott’s brow furrows. “It’ll take longer than four days for your ribs to heal.”

“Yeah, but I won’t be participating in physical training for another few weeks. I’ll just be focusing on the other stuff.”

Scott nods and sits up, stretching his arms above his head, spine popping. “So,” he says. “I vote we order in pizza and take full advantage of Tony Stark’s extensive movie collection.”

Stiles grins, warmth unfurling in his chest. “I’m in.”


	5. Chapter 5

After two cups of coffee and some painkillers, Stiles realizes just how starving he is. He ends up eating an entire pizza to himself, plus some fries and a shake, for once putting even Scott to shame.

When he’s full, he sits back on the couch, hands on his belly. They’re watching a movie about killer robot insects, an hour and a half of crappy CGI, random explosions and wooden dialogue, and it’s nice. The three of them haven’t done this in months. 

They both spend the night again and Stiles ends up sleeping another eight hours but manages to wake up before seven. Scott has to go, due in for a morning shift at the clinic, and Allison heads out soon after.

Once he’s alone, Stiles fixes himself a coffee and a massive bowl of cereal. He eats slowly, gaze on the Manhattan skyline, and waits for the fallout of the mission to hit him.

It doesn’t come.

He hurts. Knowing that he’d come so close to getting killed definitely freaks him out. And yet, he also feels…oddly settled. Relieved that, despite the bruises, he’s still alive, and proud of it, too, proud of the fact that he’s now officially a SHIELD agent and he’d kicked ass on his first mission. 

He feels _certain_. His decision to join SHIELD was the right one.

This is what he’s meant to be doing.

He puts his mug, bowl and spoon in the dishwasher and takes a shower. He’s tugging on one of Steve’s shirts when JARVIS speaks up.

“Sergeant Barnes is requesting entry to the suite.”

Unlike Natasha, Bucky’s always polite enough to announce his presence before just barging in. Especially when Steve’s home. There’d been one unfortunate incident of him walking in on the two of them on the couch and he’s always been extra cautious since.

“Let him in, JARV,” Stiles replies, heading into the main room.

Bucky’s dressed down, his hair pulled back in a messy topknot. He makes himself right at home, fixing himself a coffee before he joins Stiles on the couch. He eyes the bruises on Stiles’s face.

“So. I heard you got your ass kicked.”

Stiles pulls a face. “Why does everyone keep seeing it that way? I _won_ those fights.”

Bucky just grins. “You’re welcome.” When Stiles raises an eyebrow, he clarifies, “You woulda been dead meat if it wasn’t for your training with me and the others.”

That’s…true. And Stiles has been planning to thank Clint and Natasha, but he’s not gonna verbally thank Bucky right now. The jerk looks smug enough as it is. 

“I had to fight a couple of Inhumans,” he says instead. “That was pretty unexpected.”

“They weren’t Inhumans.”

Stiles glances at him. “How do _you_ know?”

“Stark hacked into the files this morning and sent them to Steve,” Bucky replies with a shrug. “Steve wanted to know exactly what happened.”

Irritation flashes through him. “That’s really not cool.”

“He was worried, that’s all.”

“I get that. But how come ‘classified’ apparently only applies when it’s _him_ going on a mission, but he can just go behind my back when it’s me? I would’ve told him all about it.”

“He knows. But you work for SHIELD and the details of your mission were classified. He didn’t want to put you in that position.”

“Going behind my back to hack the files is not the better option,” Stiles points out. He takes a deep breath. “So. Not Inhuman?”

“Pumped up on one hell of a chemical cocktail to enhance their strength,” Bucky replies. “It was already fading from their system when you fought ‘em. Probably why you managed to get the jump on them.”

“Your belief in me is inspiring. Thank you.”

Bucky glances over at him. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Stiles considers for a moment, but he’s genuinely okay about how the mission went down, so he shakes his head. “I’m good, actually.”

He looks at him for a long moment, then gives a nod. They lapse into the kind of silence that, a few months ago, would have been awkward, but instead is kinda peaceful. Bucky’s grown on him. 

“Stark also told me you blinded a guy,” Bucky says after a while.

“Little bit, yeah.”

He holds out his metal fist and Stiles rolls his eyes but can’t help but grin as he taps his own fist against it. Despite still falling back on some old fashioned habits, particularly when it comes to slang, Bucky’s pretty up to date on other stuff, courtesy of Clint and Tony. The first time Stiles watched him high five the Hulk – which, hilariously, ended up with Bucky embedded in the side of a building – he’d been incredulous, but he’s used to it now.

“Can’t help but feel sorry for the fella,” Bucky says. “I mean, you go your whole career, avoid gettin’ brought in by SHIELD _and_ Hydra, and then some scrappy little fucker takes you down on his first ever mission by shoving _glass_ in your eyes. Fuckin' brutal.”

“Yeah, any sympathy I might have for him evaporates the second I remember him trying to dig a hole in my neck,” Stiles replies. 

“Fair,” Bucky agrees. “Ya know, I once choked a guy by forcing a few of his own teeth down his throat.” 

“That’s savage.”

He smiles slightly, taking a gulp from his coffee. Stiles’s phone rings, splitting the brief lull in conversation, and he winces slightly as he leans forward to grab it off the table, glancing at the caller ID. He groans, but answers.

“Director Coulson,” he says.

As usual, Coulson gets straight to the point. “I know I told you not to come in for a few days,” there’s an apologetic note in his voice, “but there’s something we need to discuss.”

“Uh, okay. That’s…ominous.”

“It’s about the enhanced twins you arrested.”

“I mean…technically, I didn’t really arrest them? I just kind of…beat and maimed them a little and then shot a few rounds into them with the ICER. Agent Kowalski did the actual arresting part.”

Coulson ignores that. “How soon can you get here?”

“I can leave right away.”

“Good. Bring Sergeant Barnes, Doctor Banner, Stark and Natasha.”

Stiles blinks. “Okay, sure. Is everything -.” He stops when Coulson hangs up and sighs. “Nice chatting to you,” he mutters. He glances at Bucky. “Coulson wants us all to head over to HQ. Something about those two guys I fought.”

Unlike Stiles, Bucky doesn’t look confused or concerned, just nods once, getting to his feet. “I’ll get the car.”

“Uh, no, I’ll ask Bruce to get the car,” Stiles says quickly. “I’ve seen the way you drive.”

“What’s wrong with my driving?”

“Nothing, if you’re a former brainwashed assassin trying to plow down a bunch of people,” Stiles replies. “For a sedate journey through the city? Yeah, not so much.”

Bucky doesn’t take offence to Stiles’s tactless words. He shrugs with a grin. “I’ll get the car.”

Stiles sighs but doesn’t bother arguing, just climbs carefully to his feet. He doesn’t bother to change out of his sweatpants and into something a little more respectable for a meeting at SHIELD, but he does bundle up for the cold weather. 

“Hey, JARV? Can you get the others on the intercom?” he asks.

“Certainly, Stiles.” There’s a pause, and then a beep that lets Stiles know he can speak.

He can’t help but grin as he says, “Guys? Avengers Assemble.”

There’s a beat of silence, then, “I’m telling Steve,” Tony says. 

“Steve doesn’t own those words,” Stiles replies cheerfully. 

“I’m still telling him.”

He snorts. “Sure. But, seriously, Coulson wants us to head over to SHIELD. He’s got something to discuss with us.”

“Well, that’s…ominous,” Tony says.

Stiles makes a vindicated sound. “That’s what I said.”

“And we have to do that now? Coulson’s aware that we don’t actually have to fall in line with his schedule, right? I mean, I’m busy here. I’m doing important stuff.”

“What stuff?” Bruce chimes in. 

“Important stuff. Genius stuff. With robots and…”

“Stuff?” Natasha guesses, tone dry. “Get some caffeine down your throat and meet us in the foyer in ten minutes.”

“Uh, yeah, still not getting the whole marching to Agent’s orders things,” Tony insists.

“That’s _Director_ ,” Natasha reminds him. 

“In my heart, he’ll always be Agent.”

“Adorable. Get moving, Stark.”

There’s another beep as Natasha shuts off the intercom before Tony can reply and Stiles can’t help but grin a little. It’s a petty move, but it’s effective; Tony _hates_ it when he doesn’t get the last word.

Since Stiles doesn’t have a vehicle of his own, he hasn’t actually seen the tower’s private parking complex. It’s small, designed for SI employees, but the secure underground level is for the Avengers and their various means of road transport. There’s also a modified, high tech van, designed to fit the whole team inside it to be used on the rare occasion they all need to hit the road for something.

Tony had looked appalled when Stiles first saw it and remarked, “Huh. The Avengers have a soccer mom van. That’s so cute.”

Bucky’s behind the wheel. Apparently, he _loves_ driving, especially when he gets to sit behind the wheel of a car souped up by Tony. They tend to have extra gadgets. Impressive, dangerous, James Bond-esque types of gadgets.

Stiles climbs carefully into the back, knowing better than to try and claim shotgun. Natasha is very firm about sitting in the front passenger seat and he’d learned the hard way not to try and steal it. 

Unsurprisingly, Tony is the last one to join them. He’s wearing a scruffy AC/DC shirt, a hole cut into it to expose the arc reactor, and stained jeans. His beard is as well-groomed as ever, but his hair is a complete mess, streaked a little with grease or oil where he’s obviously run his hands through it.

He already looks bored as he leans back in his seat. Bucky gives him a look that’s reminiscent of a scolding mother, except a lot colder and a lot more dangerous. Tony just rolls his eyes, but he acquiesces to the silent demand, snapping his seatbelt into place.

“Explain to me why we couldn’t just take the limo?” he asks. “Happy would’ve driven us. And probably stopped for cheeseburgers on the way back.”

“Bucky wanted to drive,” Stiles replies.

“Wonderful.”

“ _I’ll_ stop for cheeseburgers on the way back,” Bucky cuts in from the front as the van lurches forward, swinging out onto the main road.

Stiles leans back in his seat, looking out of the window. Bruce, sat across from him and wearing an ugly Hulk green beanie, glances over at him.

“How are your ribs?” he asks.

Stiles hesitates. He hurts, a _lot_ , but he doesn’t want to admit it. It feels kinda weak, considering the people around him have taken a lot worse hits and walked it off in the heat of battle. He’s seen Natasha fight with a fractured ankle. 

“They’re okay,” he finally answers.

Bruce looks at him for a long moment, calmly assessing him. “Don’t forget to take painkillers.”

He manages a half-hearted salute in response. It’s worth it, despite the ache that throbs through his bruises. 

With Bucky driving, they get to the base in record time. Annoyingly, while the Avengers get to go on through with minimal interference from security, Stiles has to go through all his usual procedures. Tony doesn’t even try to hide his smirk when Stiles finally catches up to them. 

Coulson’s waiting for them in his office. Daisy’s there, too, sprawled casually over the couch tucked against one wall, but she reluctantly lowers her sneakers back to the floor when Coulson clears his throat at her.

Stiles is the last one in the room, so he closes the door. There’s some shuffling as they all find a space for themselves. Daisy makes room for Stiles on the couch, considerate of his injuries, and Stiles gives Tony a smirk of his own in vengeance when the older man has to stand. 

“Thank you for getting here so quickly,” Coulson says, rising from behind his desk. 

“What is it?” Natasha asks, cutting straight to the chase, her gaze sharp on her former handler. 

“It’s regarding Viper.”

Stiles looks up, a little surprised. “Really? Has there been any more activity since those guys on the train?”

It’s Tony who answers. “Nothing too alarming. JARVIS flagged up a couple of inflammatory videos some members posted on Youtube. Some self-proclaimed member got busted a couple of weeks ago trying to hold up a liquor store. That’s about it.” His gaze cuts to Coulson. “Why?”

Coulson taps his fingers on his tablet, and the large screen on the wall comes to life. “The two men with enhanced strength you took down,” he says to Stiles. “Their names are Barry and Bart Boyce.”

Stiles snorts. “Well, fuck, I’d be pretty pissed off too if I had names like that.”

Coulson doesn’t smile. He brings up a picture of the twins. They look different; less angry than when Stiles had encountered them. In the photo, they just look tired, gazes disconcertingly vacant, like there’s just emptiness inside them. It sends a chill down Stiles’s spine.

They picture zooms in on the matching tattoos on their bicep. It’s a little grainy, but easily recognizable, and Stiles feels his stomach drop.

“Viper,” he mutters, eyeing the red snake coiled around daggers. It’s an ugly tattoo, badly done, but it’s clear that it’s the same design as the symbol of the group that had attacked Stiles. 

“ _Viper_ was involved with Warren Everett?” Natasha asks. Her tone is mild, giving away nothing, but Stiles suspects she’s almost as surprised as he is.

“Apparently so,” Coulson answers. “We’re not getting much information out of Everett, which isn’t a surprise.”

Stiles glances back at the picture. “What about our two chuckleheads?” 

“They’ve been a member of Viper for a year -.”

“A _year_?” Stiles asks. “They’ve been around for that long?”

“Openly? Yes. We don’t know when they officially started organizing, but a year ago is when they started cropping up.” Coulson leans back against his desk, folding his arms. “Between them, they’ve got a pretty colorful criminal record, but their ties to Viper only became prevalent when we arrested them.”

“But they were enhanced,” Bruce points out. “I mean, no one’s expecting much sense from that kind of bigotry, but isn’t a little hypocritical? Viper seems all about wiping out people with…abilities.”

“The formula they injected themselves with is something they created themselves,” Coulson replies. “Rather than any permanent ability, it simply gives a kind of boost for a limited amount of time.”

“A boost?” Stiles repeats. “They crumpled metal with their first.” He glances at the picture of the twins, frowning. “ _They_ created the formula? Not that they were particularly chatty with me, what with the fighting and all, but they didn’t seem particularly…uh, smart.”

“No,” Coulson agrees. “From what we can gather, the side effect of the temporary strength is a state of pure, uncontrollable rage.” 

He nods slightly. “Yeah, they were pretty angry,” he murmurs. “So, kinda like the Hulk. But less green and a lot less strong.”

“The Hulk is intelligent,” Tony disagrees, looking a little offended on his buddy’s behalf. “The guy isn’t exactly a conversationalist, I’ll give you that, but he’s smart.”

A small smile flickers on Bruce’s mouth. “Thanks.”

“You’re right. These guys are different. They just…lost themselves to that rage. It emptied everything else out of them, left a shell.” Coulson gestures to the photo. “We can’t get anything sensible out of them. They don’t speak. They barely react to anything. We’re not going to get any information out of them.”

Stiles feels his belly knot up as he frowns at the picture of the twins. Fuck, he hadn’t felt guilty for knocking them out, considering they were trying to kill him and all, but the thought of being left like that due to whatever they pumped into their system…it’s chilling. He looks at those blank, lifeless eyes and feels a little sick.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “So, Everett hired them as bodyguards. Maybe it’s coincidence that they happen to be members of Viper.”

“Or maybe it’s not,” Natasha counters. She glances at Coulson. “You said Everett was a double agent for Hydra.”

“Technically,” he replies, nodding slightly. “More of an opportunist, working both sides and selling information to third parties. I don’t think Viper currently has any ties to Hydra.”

“But it’s worrying,” Stiles mutters. “If Viper are getting involved with bigger fish like Everett…” he trails off, blowing out a breath. “Fuck.”

“Not just Everett,” Tony says, gaze on the phone in his hand. “The woman he was trying to sell information to, her name is Moira Abernathy?” 

Stiles frowns. The name rings a bell and he searches his memory. “Wait. Abernathy. As in…?”

“Abernathy Consolidated,” Tony confirms, nodding. “Not a firm I personally deal with. They have a pretty shady history.” 

“Stark,” Coulson says, mild exasperation in his voice. “Did you just hack into our files?”

“No comment,” is Tony’s blithe answer. He swipes a finger across his phone, eyes flicking rapidly as he takes in the information on the screen. “So. Moira Abernathy, huh? A billionaire wanting access to a list of undercover SHIELD agents.”

Natasha crosses her arms. “What are you getting at, Tony?”

“JARVIS just did a little digging for me. Apparently, a significant amount of money is being funnelled out of the company funds every month. Discreetly, of course, but let’s face it. Nothing is discreet enough to get past JARVIS.”

“Stark,” Coulson sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Will you please stop doing illegal things in my presence?”

“I make no promises. And it’s really Abernathy’s illegal activities you should be worrying about. Most of the money is being transferred into a bank account listed under the name ‘M.L Price’. Either they’re really dumb, or they’re just really brazen, because they haven’t even used an offshore account or a fake name.”

Coulson straightens. “Miles Price. He’s one of the most active members of Viper. Abernathy’s funding him?”

“Which suggests our shiny, bald friends being linked to Viper likely isn’t a coincidence,” Tony says. “Abernathy is Viper. Or at least, she’s supporting their cause. JARVIS, do a search for – huh. Yep, some illicit weapon sales. She’s not just funding them. She’s arming them.” He glances up. “Good job she didn’t get her hands on that list.”

“SHIELD makes no secret of the fact that some of its agents are Inhumans. And we support the Avengers.” Coulson sighs. “Looks like she, or Miles, have a vendetta.” 

“Okay, but we’ve caught her red handed,” Stiles points out. “So, yay? Go team?”

“We’ve caught Moira Abernathy. But this shows that Viper is branching out more, seeking out wealthy and powerful associates. They’re upping their game.” Coulson glances at Daisy. “A video was uploaded earlier today by two Viper members. They had footage of Agent Johnson using her powers and vowed to deliver a public execution of Quake.” 

Stiles snorts. “They can _try_.”

Daisy grins at that, but there’s a tightness to it. “They’re getting bolder. First, they tried to attack you. Now they’re openly threatening me and other members of SHIELD. Closely monitoring them isn’t enough anymore. We need to shut them down before they really become a threat.”

Coulson nods. “Agent Johnson, I want you and Agents May and Morse to bring Moira Abernathy in. Stark -.”

“I’ve already transferred all the evidence you need to your server, Agent.”

“Good. Hopefully, cutting short Abernathy’s plans will be enough to stamp out the worst of Viper’s plans. But we can’t be certain how much of a threat they pose to you. _Any_ of you. Be vigilant.”

“Have you spoken to Steve and Clint about this?” Bruce asks.

Coulson nods. “I contacted them before you arrived.”

“What about Jane?” Natasha adds.

“Well protected, I assure you. Whenever Thor returns, I’ll inform him of the situation. In the meantime, Jane, Darcy and Selvig are all safe.”

Stiles gets to his feet. He casts one last look at the picture of the twins, unable to shift the sliver of ice that’s taken up residence in his gut. He gives Coulson a little nod as they leave. 

“So, you took down a couple more Viper members,” Bucky says, nudging his shoulder against Stiles’s. His smile dims a little when Stiles winces in pain. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he murmurs. “And, to be honest? It kind of looks like they took themselves out.”

***

When they get back to the tower, Bruce reminds him to take some painkillers before disappearing back into his lab, Tony in tow.

He’s sore enough that he complies. He tries to get comfortable on the bed, but his ribs ache, throbbing every time he breathes too deeply. He attempts to work on some French, but gives up after ten minutes, when it becomes apparent that he just doesn’t have the focus for it. For a while, he just stares at the ceiling, an itch under his skin.

He doesn’t want to be alone. 

Sighing, he finally gets up, tugging on a sweatshirt to ward off the cold as he leaves the suite, taking the elevator to the communal floor. 

Natasha and Bucky are both there and they don’t look up when Stiles joins them on the couch, but Bucky does shift slightly to make more room. He’s reading, some science fiction book that Stiles doesn’t recognize the title of, and, next to him, Natasha has her foot carefully propped on his thigh as she paints her toenails a shimmering dark blue.

Stiles fidgets around until he can find the least painful position. He considers asking JARVIS to start a movie, but he doesn’t want to disturb Bucky when he’s reading, so he simply closes his eyes instead, for once just enjoying the quiet. It’s nice to simply be around other people.

There’s a grunt, and then Natasha murmurs, “Sorry, didn’t mean to kick you. God, you’re tense.”

Stiles opens one eye, glancing at Bucky. “You okay?”

He shrugs in response, not tearing his gaze away from his book. Natasha looks at Stiles, mouth curling into a slight smile.

“He’s nervous,” she says. “He has a date.”

“He has a _date_?” Stiles repeats, incredulous.

Bucky does look at him then, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why is it such a shock that I could get a date?”

“It’s not. I just…I mean…” Stiles waves a hand in Bucky’s direction and earns himself a cold look in response. He clears his throat. “So, uh. Dating is a lot different these days.”

He snorts. “I’m aware. I have actually been on dates in the last couple of years, genius.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to help.”

Bucky eyes him for a moment, considering. “Fine, you can help. What kinda flowers does Allison like?”

For a second, Stiles’s mind goes blank. He blinks at Bucky, surprised, and opens and closes his mouth a couple of times without actually saying anything before he finally manages to speak.

“Uh. Roses, I think. Not the red ones, she likes those pink ones. So, you’re going on a date with Allison?” 

Bucky just nods, gaze already back on his book. Stiles glances at Natasha, wondering how she’s taking it, considering she seems to have a certain soft spot for Allison. She looks open and relaxed, a small smile on her face as she watches Stiles’s surprise, but when she catches his gaze, she rolls her eyes.

“Allison likes blue, right?” she asks, holding up her hand to show off dark blue fingernails.

Stiles nods slowly. “Yeah. So…the three of you?”

Natasha glances at Bucky, something warm and tender brimming in her gaze before it slips away and she just smiles slightly.

“The three of us,” she agrees.

“Huh. Way to go, Allison.”

They _both_ roll their eyes then, perfectly in sync, and it’s both eerie and incredibly endearing. Stiles smiles, shifting slightly to get comfortable. Natasha catches the movement, because of course she does, and she watches him for a long moment, but doesn’t say anything. She’s good at that; knowing when to check in and when it’s best to leave something alone.

Stiles’s phone rings in his pocket and he tugs it out, glancing at the caller ID. He winces slightly, but answers.

“Hey, dad. What’s up?”

“Scott called me.”

_Whoops_. “Oh, uh. He did?”

There’s a long pause before his dad sighs. “Were you even gonna tell me?”

“Of course I was! It’s just been…I don’t know. A weird couple of days.” Stiles clears his throat. “But I’m okay. Really. I am.”

“A few weeks ago, you got stabbed on a train-.”

“A _little_ bit stabbed, it really isn’t a big deal -.”

“A little bit stabbed is _still goddamn stabbed_ , Stiles. And it’s a big deal to _me_.” There’s a thread of anger in John’s voice that warns just how close he is to shouting. “And now you get back from some mission beaten bloody.”

Stiles bites his lip and instantly regrets it when it stings the cut. “Dad, really, I’m fine. Can we just…I dunno, can we focus on the fact that I’m an agent now? That I succeeded in my first ever SHIELD operation?”

John pauses again, silence stretching between them, piano wire taut. When he finally speaks, his tone is a little softer, the true extent of his concern bleeding into his voice. 

“I’m proud of you, son,” he promises. “I am. But I’m also scared shitless.”

“I know. I get it, I do. ‘Cause I’ve been through it. Remember Christmas when I was fifteen? You came home with a black eye and a cracked rib. And it wasn’t a big deal to you, it was just a hazard of the job, but to me it was _everything_. So I understand, dad. And I don’t know what to tell you except what you told me back then: that I’m okay, and that I promise to try to always come home in one piece.”

“Damn it, kiddo,” John mutters. “I’m your parent. I’m not supposed to wonder if I’m gonna have to bury you in the near future.”

“You _won’t_ ,” Stiles insists. “Dad. What do you think I would have been doing if I _had_ joined the FBI? Or decided to become a cop like you?”

“A cop would at least be safer.”

“Maybe in a small town in Beacon Hills, but where I live right now? Come on, dad. You never had any issue with what I wanted back then. How is this any different?”

“It’s not,” John allows carefully. “But now I’m seeing it first hand and I don’t know if I can handle it, Stiles. You’re all I’ve got.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s fair to try and control what I do, dad. You can’t stop me from living my life just to ensure my survival.” The words are harsh and he winces when he hears his dad’s sharp intake of breath. 

“It’s not just SHIELD, although I’d be lying if I said I completely trust them. It’s this group that’s targeting superheroes. They targeted _you_ , Stiles.”

“Yeah. And I showed them just why that’s a bad idea. It’s not going to stop me from being with Steve.” Stiles pushes a hand through his hair, suddenly just completely exhausted with everything. “After New York…after – after you lost your leg, despite how difficult it all was, despite how lost you were for a while there…you said that all of it, the pain, the physical therapy, the changes to your life and your career, all of it was worth it and if you had a chance of a do-over, you’d make the same choice. You’d still jump into a dangerous situation in order to save innocent people. Did you mean it?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then can you appreciate that this is the same for me? When I chose to pursue a career in law, it’s because I thought it was my chance to help people. To make a difference. But it wasn’t really what was right for me. _This_ is. I’m helping people, dad. This is something I have to do. You, more than anyone, can understand that, surely?”

“Yeah,” John says quietly. “Yeah, of course I can. I just…can _you_ understand that I’m worried? That I’m always gonna worry about you? You’re my child. My only child.”

“I know. And I do understand, dad, I promise.”

“Good. Just…promise me you’ll be careful. I’ve been looking at some of the videos this so called Viper group have posted online and it’s ugly stuff, Stiles. I need you to make sure you look after yourself.”

“I will,” he promises. “Always.”

When he hangs up, Bucky’s gaze is fixed on the book in his hands, his expression carefully blank. Natasha just offers Stiles a small shrug.

“It gets easier,” she says.

Stiles really fucking hopes so.

***

He knows he should be resting, but he can’t get his mind to slow down enough for him to get some sleep or stay still, so he ends up down in Tony’s workshop.

Tony’s completely lost in whatever it is he’s working on, brow furrowed in concentration, and Pepper’s curled up on the couch, wearing an oversized sweater, leggings and fuzzy socks, her hair pinned back in a messy bun. Despite living in the same building for months now, Stiles has never seen her dressed so casually, or looking anything other than pristine. She looks younger. 

She’s tapping her foot along to the music playing over the speakers, a tablet in her hands, but she looks up when she notices Stiles, giving a warm smile and a little flutter of her fingers in a wave.

“Would I be wasting my time if I reminded you that you should be resting?” she asks.

Stiles offers a sheepish smile. “Probably. Are you going to anyway?”

“No. I’ve learned when to pick my battles.” She gives Tony a look full of utter fondness as she says it. 

Stiles grins and takes a seat in one of the several chairs littered around the room. He doesn’t know whether they’re there for any guests in the workshop – like Bruce, or Bucky – to use, or back-ups due to Tony’s tendency to lose track of a chair and simply fall into the next closest one, but he takes the one farthest away from Tony just in case.

He’ll never get used to being able to pull up a holographic screen with just a flick of his fingers. He knows he doesn’t execute it as elegantly as Tony, but he’s finally learned how to touch just gently enough to manipulate the screen how he wants. 

“JARV, can you pull up everything you have on Viper?” he asks.

He loses track of time after that, just pouring over all the information JARVIS has gathered…including some confidential files from SHIELD, but Stiles decides it’s best not to acknowledge that. He doubts that Coulson is unaware of it anyway and would probably have sent the information over if Tony had _asked_ , so he doesn’t feel like a conspirator against his own boss as he flicks through those files.

He starts making connections, pulling up a thread of green light to connect Abernathy Consolidated to Viper and the twins, since that particular investigation had been solved pretty quickly. He links Viper to Everett, threading it to the men that had assaulted Stiles on the train. Slowly, he starts to bring together a pattern, connecting different chunks of information with green light, others with yellow if they’re suspicious but can’t be confirmed.

Still, there’s a lot of red light on the board. He’s managed to put together a small hierarchy of known Viper members, but mostly, it’s the grunts. People like Tommy, small time criminals, and those posting vitriolic bullshit on social media. He places Everett in the middle and after some deliberation, he chooses to put Moira Abernathy in the centre, too. She’d been funding them, sure, and her distrust and hatred towards superpowered people has been well documented, but she hasn’t done anything until _now_. She hasn’t given up any other names, either, which suggests she doesn’t actually know any, so she’s likely only a few levels above the likes of Tommy. 

The people at the top, the ones pulling the strings and branching out to make the group stronger, more dangerous, they remain elusive, and that’s frustrating. But the more fry they can catch, the closer they get to the big fish, so it’s something, at least.

Stiles sits back in his chair, tapping at his bottom lip as he stares at the board, trying to put the puzzle together in his mind. It’s a familiar routine; it reminds him of the giant board stashed away in his bedroom in his childhood home, covered in pages of paper, photographs, scribbled notes and red, yellow and green thread. His dad hadn’t approved of it, but Stiles had helped him on several cases, catching those patterns, those links, his mind narrowing to focus on one thing until the investigation closed. 

He might be sat in Tony Stark’s workshop, moving bits of light instead of thread, but it’s a familiar, almost comforting scenario.

There’s a loud blast across the workshop, snapping Stiles out of his concentration, and he blinks at where Tony’s sprawled on the floor, surrounded by the remains of whatever it was he’d blown up. Dummy’s already extinguished the small fire and Tony doesn’t seem hurt, just startled. Pepper glances at him, shakes her head slightly, and returns her attention to her tablet.

“Huh. Okay, J, I think we’ll file that test under 'failed',” Tony mutters, getting back to his feet. 

“Most prudent, Sir,” JARVIS agrees dryly.

Stiles peers at whatever it is Tony’s working on. He hums, then offers, “You’re trying to compress it down too much. It won’t work, not with that amount of force.”

“Yeah, thanks, Brain Trust,” Tony shoots back. “Kinda have to compress it down, otherwise it won’t work.”

“Right. Except you have that inertial dampening system in the suit, right? So if you adjust the specs on that slightly to compensate for, say…” Stiles pauses, tapping the screen to bring up a calculation. “ _That_ much force, you won’t have to compress it down to the point of it being volatile. Instead, the suit will accommodate and protect you.” 

Tony pauses, considering. “Huh,” he says finally. “That’s so obvious. JARVIS, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You haven’t slept for -.”

“Right,” he cuts the AI off, ignoring Pepper’s narrow eyed look.

“And you haven’t consumed anything besides coffee for -.”

“Uh huh. Got it, J, thanks for -.”

“So you are currently performing at 56% your usual capacity,” JARVIS finishes. 

“Right. Yeah. Great.”

“Plus, I think the whole ‘less is more’ concept went out the window with you the second you painted your suit red and gold,” Stiles adds. 

“Less is more,” Tony tests the words out with obvious distaste. He folds his arms. “Okay, J, let me know if it’ll work.”

Less than two minutes later, JARVIS announces, “My current simulation suggests that Stiles’s solution would be successful. Should I make the adjustments to the Mark 62, Sir?”

“Go for it,” Tony says with a wave of his hand. He turns to look at Stiles. “You, Bambi, are completely wasted at SHIELD.”

“Hey,” he protests. 

“You are. Hey, Pep, tell him.”

“Play nice, Tony,” she replies, although she does pause and then add, “But you do have a point.”

“I’m not wasted at SHIELD,” Stiles insists.

“You could do a hell of a lot more at SI,” Tony says, eyeing him with that sharp, calculating gaze. “The R&D department would love you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Right. I’m sure a degree in criminology and criminal justice and half an education at law school makes me super qualified to work in a scientific engineering field.”

Tony glances at Stiles’s investigation screen, then at his own project. “You figured that out pretty quickly.”

“Well, yeah, but -.”

“Look,” he cuts Stiles off. “I’ve reviewed the footage of your conversations with Bruce.”

“First of all, that’s creepy and invasive. And, secondly, I’m telling Bruce.”

“Tattletale,” Tony replies. “But seriously. You can almost keep up in a conversation with him. You’re interested in it, I can tell. And I bet when you don’t understand something, you go and research it, right? Because the next time you talk to him, you’re able to make sense of what it is he’s working on.”

“Well, sure, but JARVIS helps.”

“And, yeah, that. JARVIS. I’ve also looked at your chats with him and it’s just as impressive. Not to mention when you get Point Break going on about Asgardian science and technology. You and Jane spent…what? Three hours discussing the Bifrost’s dimensional energy?” 

“Her work is brilliant, okay, and I don’t understand about half of it, but it’s _fascinating_. I like…I like learning.” Stiles folds his arms, shrugging slightly, feeling weirdly defensive. “It’s just research. Pretty much any information is available on the Internet and sometimes…sometimes when my brain latches onto something, I just spend time learning about it. It’s no big deal.”

“Uh huh,” Tony says, doubtful. “Have you ever been IQ tested? J, bring up Bambi’s file.”

“Jesus fuck, Stark, creepy and invasive,” Stiles repeats, frowning. Still, curiosity wins over his irritation; he hasn’t actually seen his own file before. He wrinkles his nose at the terrible picture they’ve used.

“You were salutatorian,” Tony remarks.

“Yeah. Lydia was valedictorian. Definitely no competition. It was a cakewalk for her. She _has_ been IQ tested.”

“I know. I wasn’t kidding about trying to recruit her.”

“Yeah, and I wasn’t kidding when I told you ‘good luck’. Lydia’s too good for SI. No offence.”

“Oh, I know. Why do you think I want to hire her?” Tony replies.

“She’ll have her own empire someday. But right now, she’s like me. She likes learning. She speaks, like, six languages. She speaks Archaic Latin. Who the fuck speaks Archaic Latin?”

Tony shrugs. “I do.”

“Yeah, okay, Mr I-Went-To-A-Fancy-Ass-Boarding-School. Lydia learned it when we were fifteen. For _fun_.” 

Tony nods. “She could’ve gone to college early, right? But she turned down the opportunity.”

He hesitates. It’s not really any of Tony’s business why Lydia decided to stay in Beacon Hills instead of leave for college as early as possible. He doubts Tony would understand why someone as brilliant and academically ruthless as Lydia would pass up such an opportunity, preferring to stay in high school, simply because she was in love with a complete douchebag at the time.

“You could have too,” Tony adds. 

“Uh…yeah, I mean, it’s not…”

“But you also turned it down.”

Stiles hesitates. “My dad. And Scott. I didn’t want to leave them. Especially my dad, I mean. I didn’t want him to be on his own.” 

“You’re a genius, Stiles. And, seriously, I don’t throw that term around lightly. I’m really not the kind of guy to compliment people on their intelligence unless they’re actually, you know, _intelligent_.” Tony frowns at him, assessing. “But you don’t use your full potential. Why? I mean, it’s obvious you held back in high school because you had a thing for Lydia Martin -.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles mutters, closing his eyes.

“But why now? Why criminal justice, and then law? And now SHIELD? You’d actually be challenged by SI.”

“Tony,” Pepper cuts in, tone chiding. “Your compliments have an annoying tendency to turn into personal attacks.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “First of all, your recruitment pitch is fucking _terrible_ ,” he bites out. “And, secondly, I’m not really a genius, okay? I’m smart. I know I’m smart. And I’m good at learning, at taking in information if I need to, or if it’s just something that interests me. But I’m not…I’m not like you, or Dr Banner, or Lydia. And I’m not _wasting_ my potential or whatever the hell you think I’m doing.”

Tony gives a dubious sound. “Uh-huh, sure -.”

Stiles steps closer. Tony is actually a little bit shorter than him, but somehow, he always manages to seem larger, filling the space he’s in, his presence imposing. Stiles ignores that feeling now as he glares at him.

“I chose criminal justice, and then law, because I had no idea what I really wanted to do with my life. I just knew that I wanted to help people. That’s why I joined SHIELD, too. Could I be challenged by SI? Sure, absolutely, I don’t doubt that for a second. And would working on technological innovations be fun? No shit. But it wouldn’t satisfy me, not the way being an agent does. This is what I’m meant to be doing. The stuff I talk to Bruce or Thor with, and the stuff I learn in my own time, or just research, I do because I’m interested in it and I enjoy the process of learning. But it’s not my goal in life. I mean, were you fulfilling your whole potential when you created weapons? When you were blundering through life designing missiles and guns? No. You’re only satisfied when you’re creating the stuff you do now. When you’re making progress in clean energy, when you’re _helping_ people. This is _my_ version of that. You think I’m smart? Great, thank you, I’m aware. But don’t try and sell me some bullshit that I’m wasted doing the thing I actually _give a damn about_. Because I could easily point out the decades you wasted as the Merchant of Death.”

For a second, there’s just silence, Stiles’s words hanging in the air between them. He’s hit a nerve; he can see it in the way Tony’s eyes immediately go cold, his expression not giving anything away. He smiles, a handsome but completely false twist of his lips, as he steps even closer, using his own body to intimidate. Stiles knows that Tony’s words can be just as effective a weapon as his suit of armor and braces himself, knowing that he’s about to be cut right to the core, but Pepper gets to her feet, resting a gentle hand on Tony’s arm.

“You need sleep,” she says firmly. “And food. And you need to stop thinking.”

“Impossible, Pep,” Tony replies, but he eases away from Stiles, closer to her. 

Stiles swallows. His anger is already fizzling out, leaving his belly knotted up with guilt. He _likes_ Tony. And, yeah, sometimes Tony doesn’t know when to stop, doesn’t realize that he’s stomping right over the line, but Stiles had gone too far with the Merchant of Death comment.

“Tony,” he says quietly. “I…shit, that was fucked up. I’m sorry.”

Tony looks at him for a long moment but doesn’t say anything. Pepper shoots Stiles a small, reassuring smile as she ushers Tony out of the workshop.

Stiles follows but lets them take the elevator. He uses the stairs instead, despite his injuries, and lets himself into his suite. He wishes Steve was home. He wants nothing more than to just crawl into bed with him and not face the world again for at least a week.

But the suite is empty and cold. JARVIS automatically adjusts the heating for him as Stiles heads into the bedroom. 

He crawls into bed, lying on his back, and feels the throb of his bruises with each slow, steady breath. 

Dusk falls, spilling darkness across the room until JARVIS lowers the blinds and switches on the lamp next to the bed, casting a muted golden hue across the walls. 

Stiles doesn’t sleep.

***

Tony’s sat in the kitchen when Stiles finally ventures out the next morning.

He’s still in the clothes he was wearing yesterday, hunched over a cup of coffee, and dark circles stain the skin underneath his eyes. 

He clearly hasn’t slept, despite Pepper’s attempt at herding him to bed. He glances up when Stiles walks around him to pour himself a mug of coffee and tugs something out of his pocket, placing it on the counter. It’s a small, thin silver disc, no bigger than quarter. 

Stiles picks it up, turning it over carefully in his fingers. “What is this?”

“New toy for you,” Tony replies. He holds out a hand. “Here. Gimme your wrist.”

Stiles cautiously places his wrist in Tony’s hand, aware that Tony has a _thing_ about touching. He’s fine with it when it’s Pepper, or Colonel Rhodes, or Happy; sometimes, even Steve or Bruce. But with everyone else, he has distinct boundaries. He’ll initiate casual contact like it’s nothing – a hand on the shoulder, a swat to stop a hand from stealing from his stash of snacks, a playful punch on the shoulder – but he’s a lot less comfortable when other people touch _him_ first. 

Tony sets the disc back on the counter and tugs a plain silver ring out of his pocket, holding it up. Stiles’s mouth twitches slightly.

“Should Steve be jealous?” he jokes.

Tony rolls his eyes, but some of the tension between them eases at the quip. He places the ring on Stiles’s middle finger; it fits snugly, not too tight but definitely not going to slide off, and it’s unnerving some of the things Tony just _knows_ , like Stiles’s damn ring size of all things. 

Tony taps the ring twice and a second later, the device flips off the counter, connecting to the ring with enough force to make Stiles’s hand jolt slightly. 

“Okay,” Tony says, and he’s grinning slightly, clearly excited to show off his invention. “Tap the device once, then grab my arm.”

Stiles does, yanking his hand back when Tony jumps, a brief wince crossing across his face. He shakes out his arm with another cheerful grin.

“One tap is just a small shock, two is enough force to stun, and three will take your opponent down, but won’t kill them. The disc itself is calibrated to your touch only, so only you can activate it. You can throw it to take out someone from a distance. Just tap the ring twice and it’ll return to your hand.”

“Huh,” Stiles says, looking down at the disc in his hand. “That’s…I mean, this is awesome, Tony.”

“I’m making one for Natasha as well,” Tony explains. “You can’t use it with SHIELD, since this isn’t something I’m letting them get their hands on, but it’ll be useful for any incidents you might get yourself into.”

Stiles nods. “It’s brilliant. Seriously, thank you.”

Tony shrugs, waving off the gratitude, but Stiles knows exactly what the device in his palm means. It’s an acceptance of Stiles’s apology yesterday and an offering of his own, even though Tony won’t ever say the words out loud.

Relief pours through Stiles. He almost says ‘thank you’ again, but he knows Tony would just get all allergic to gratitude again, so he bites it back and just offers a grin.

Tony gets it. Steve, Bucky, Thor and Hulk have their supernatural strength, speed and healing abilities, not to mention Thor has Mjolnir, and Bucky has his arm. Clint has his bow and arrows and Natasha has her incredible combat skills. Tony has his suit of armor, sure, and he’s definitely not vulnerable outside of it, either, but out of all of them, he gets it most: Stiles is just a human, and he needs all of the advantages he can get if he ever has to go up against superpowered people.

The device is lightweight and cool against his palm. It’s reassuring.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: explicit sexual content, mention of amputated limbs and prosthetics, and mild angst.

The second the plane starts to take off, Stiles feels a thread of anxiety knot in his chest.

He gives another sweeping glance at the other seats, looking over the other passengers, even though the likelihood of any of them being a threat is unlikely. They’d been careful, had planned this thoroughly enough to ensure they’d be safe for the flight.

When Steve had suggested a visit to Beacon Hills, Tony had asked if they planned to take one of the jets. Stiles had vetoed that instantly; it feels excessive to take a jet just for themselves in order to visit his dad. He’d insisted on catching a commercial plane, like _normal_ people, and Steve had agreed. Firstly, because, like Stiles, he tries to keep as normal a life as possible, even if that means sitting in cramped airplane seats, and secondly, because taking a jet would meant Steve being the pilot.

“I’ve only flown a plane once,” he’d said, a wry little smile on his mouth. “And I crashed it into the Atlantic. So I’m maybe not the best choice of pilot.”

It’s been a month since Stiles’s first mission. He’s been on a couple more since, but nothing involving physical confrontation. If he’s honest, they’d been kind of boring, just brief missions to get intel. 

His ribs still ache a little bit, but only if he bumps them, and the cut on his neck has faded to a less ghoulish looking line. His mouth has healed and, while the worst of the bruises on his torso are lingering, splashing his skin with ugly green and yellow, the rest have disappeared. 

It had been surprisingly easy to get a few days off from SHIELD. Coulson had smiled slightly at Stiles’s clear shock, reminding him that even recruits are entitled to time off, before adding, “Besides, who am I to stop Captain America from going on a vacation?”

He’d given Steve the window seat, because despite everything he’s seen and experienced since waking up, watching the clouds as they fly above them is still something he is completely awed by. He’s jumped out of planes before, but apparently, it’s different when he’s not full of adrenaline and focused on the mission. He can actually appreciate the view.

Stiles leans his head back. Steve hasn’t been to Beacon Hills before and he’s both excited and oddly nervous to show him his hometown. 

The woman sat across the aisle suddenly gets to her feet and he tenses before he can help it. A warm hand settles on his knee as she makes her way to the toilet.

“Relax,” Steve murmurs. “We’re fine.”

Stiles nods, linking his fingers with Steve’s. He squeezes slightly, gazing at Stiles with a soft little smile, and Stiles leans in to kiss him.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’ve never joined the Mile High Club, right?”

Steve laughs slightly. “No, and I know exactly what you’re talking about. Not gonna happen, doll.”

Stiles can’t help but grin at the nickname, a giddy little thrill of warmth unfurling in his chest. He loves it when Steve uses terms of endearments, especially old fashioned ones, and he adores how Steve’s tongue curls around ‘doll’, Brooklyn accent caressing it. He knows Steve does it on purpose for just that reason: he’s fully aware of how much Stiles loves it, even if he rolls his eyes and calls Steve a sap or a dork in response.

Steve’s smile widens at the look on Stiles’s face and he kisses him again before settling back in his seat. He tugs a book out of his backpack, flipping it open to a page he’d marked by turning the corner down, and Stiles turns his own attention to the movie that’s started to play on the little screen in the seat in front of him. He tucks on the accompanying headphones and forces himself to relax, tension slowly fizzling out as he watches _Finding Nemo_.

Halfway through the flight, an attendant starts rolling a trolley through the aisles, offering snacks and drinks. Stiles takes the headphones off and looks up as she pauses next to them. She opens her mouth – and then her gaze falls on Steve.

Her teeth audibly click together as she bites off a surprised sound, cheeks immediately going patchy with pink. Blue eyes widen.

“Oh, um – I – _oh_.” And then she disappears, leaving the cart where it is as she rushes out of view.

Stiles sighs, but he can’t help but laugh slightly when he hears giggling and barely hushed voices from where the flight attendants are gathered, hidden by the curtain. 

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” he asks Steve.

He smiles slightly, both amused and bewildered. “Unfortunately, yeah.”

Finally, the flight attendant returns, still pink cheeked and a little starry eyed as she retrieves the cart. 

“Sorry about that, um, Captain Rogers,” she says. “Would you like anything to eat or drink?”

“Coffee would be great, thanks,” Steve replies politely.

Stiles gets one too, watching as she carries on down the aisle, glancing back frequently to where Steve is sitting. He snorts, dumping a load of sugar into his coffee before stirring it.

“Steve Rogers,” he says fondly. “Capturing hearts even in the skies.”

Steve shakes his head. “It’s…strange.”

“What? That you’re so handsome you literally make people speechless? ‘Cause that’s exactly what you did to me when I first saw you, and I didn’t even know who you _were_.”

He slides Stiles an amused look. “I don’t think you’ve ever been speechless, Stiles.”

“I’m wounded. But seriously. Look at yourself. Even without the whole being a literal superhero thing, you’re fucking gorgeous, Steve. Of course people react the way they do.”

“I just don’t think I’ll ever get used to it,” Steve admits. “Sometimes, I still expect people to react the way they did before I had the serum. No one was really interested in a skinny, sickly artist.”

“I’ve seen the photos, Steve. People were goddamn idiots if they weren’t interested in you.”

He stares at Stiles for a moment, as if unsure if Stiles actually means it. 

“I’m serious,” he insists. “You were still _you_. Still had that soft blond hair that I want to run my hands through, and those blue eyes so full of just…humor and kindness and _life_. Still had those cheekbones and a jawline to die for, even though it does upset me to see how gaunt you were, because your wellbeing is important to me. You were gorgeous, Steve, just in a different way. _I_ would have been interested in that skinny artist. I love you.”

Steve swallows, tenderness brimming in his expression. “Sometimes I wish…I wish I did have you back then,” he murmurs. “But it wouldn’t really have been a good idea. It wasn’t safe to step out with fellas, even in secret. And it means I woulda lost you, that I wouldn’t have you _now_.”

“You have me,” Stiles agrees. “Always.” He pauses before smirking slightly and adds, “Besides, I have a theory that the serum didn’t actually enhance your dick, because why would it? So…little guy with a big cock…hell _yeah_ I would’ve been all over that.”

“Stiles,” Steve chokes out, looking a little horrified even as he laughs. “You’re…well, you’re not _wrong_ , but we’re in public.”

“I’m not wrong, huh?” Stiles asks, grinning. “Oh, Steve, baby. I am gonna be thinking about that for the rest of the flight.”

Steve shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly, but he’s relaxed, a happy little smile on his face. Stiles loves making him look like that. 

He does end up thinking about it for the entire duration of the flight, because how could he not? In fact, Steve actually has to jostle him slightly as they land to break him out of his thoughts. They do the awkward shuffle-stop-shuffle off the plane.

It’s cold, but still warmer than New York had been when they left. The airport is a hell of a lot less busy than JFK, too.

His dad is waiting for them and Stiles grins when he sees him, feels that familiar burst of _home_ and _safety_ and, best of all, _love_ that pierces his chest whenever he lays eyes on his dad. His dad grins back, opening his arms for a hug.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, dad,” he replies, pulling back with a smile.

John turns to Steve, accepting the outstretched hand but using it to pull Steve into a hug instead of shaking it. Steve looks surprised for half a second and then pleased as he returns the hug, clapping John gently on the back.

“It’s good to see you again, sir,” he says.

“You too, son,” John replies as they part. “You been to California before?”

“A couple of times,” Steve answers. “I tried out a road trip shortly after I woke up. I wanted to see how much the country had changed. I saw some of California then. And I’ve been here a couple of times for Avengers business, but…” he shrugs slightly with a wry smile. “There wasn’t much opportunity for sight-seeing.”

John nods. “Well, I think you’ll like Beacon Hills. It’s small, cozy. Your kind of place, I imagine.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dad, he’s from Brooklyn.”

His dad ignores that, instead turning to lead them out of the airport. He’s not limping, although he is walking a little slower than he would’ve done years ago. He’s taken to his new prosthetic like a duck to water; apparently, it’s more comfortable than the old one, and actually works almost entirely like a real leg. It’s an SI prosthetic, top of the line, the best out there, and they haven’t spoken about it because Stiles knows his dad doesn’t want to think of it as pity or charity from Tony Stark.

Stiles stops suddenly, spotting a familiar, powder blue jeep parked several feet away.

Steve immediately tenses, gaze snapping around their surroundings. “What is it?” he asks quietly.

Stiles just gives him a small pat on the chest and rushes forward, grinning. He smooths a hand over Roscoe’s hood, feeling ridiculously fond of the old girl.

“I can’t believe you brought her,” he says to his dad. 

“Yeah, well, I know how much you’ve missed her.” John tosses Stiles the keys, then eyes Steve for a moment. “I’ll sit in the back.”

Stiles smiles at the mental image of Steve trying to squish his large frame into the back seat, his long legs pushed uncomfortably up by the front seats. He unlocks the jeep and watches his dad get settled in the back before climbing into the driver’s seat. Steve makes himself comfortable in the passenger side.

“This is your jeep?” he asks.

Stiles nods, proud. “Roscoe,” he says. “My baby. She was actually my mom’s. My dad kept her for when I was old enough to drive. She’s taken me through some tough times.”

“Like the time you and Scott decided to go off roading when it was pure ice out?” John mutters from the back. “I’m pretty sure sheer dumb luck got you through that alive.”

“Probably,” Stiles agrees. “That and my excellent driving skills.”

He gives the steering wheel a fond pat and starts the engine. The loud rattle is familiar, the whole jeep shaking slightly, and Steve looks vaguely alarmed as they set off. 

It’s not too long of a drive to Beacon Hills. When they pass the sign welcoming them to the town, he feels an odd rush of nostalgia. He’s not sure if it’s the good or bad kind. He’s visited his hometown plenty of times since moving away for school, but this time, it’s different, because he has Steve with him.

The roads are familiar, ingrained in his bones, branded into both his memory and his heart. He takes the tight, twisting bends through the preserve with ease. 

“I got lost in there so many times as a kid,” he says, gesturing briefly towards the woods bordering each side of the road. “It was a nightmare for my dad. He actually had a protocol with his deputies that he initiated when I disappeared. Apparently, they once found me curled up asleep in a coyote den.”

Steve blinks at him. “Were you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, totally fine. There weren’t actually any coyotes in there by that time.” 

Steve shakes his head slightly and looks out of the window, watching the brittle trees and dead leaves. 

They leave the preserve behind them, snaking closer to the centre of town. Stiles points to the high school as they pass it.

“That’s where I went to school,” he says. “I got suspended a few times. But at least half of those times were because one of my teachers, Harris, was a total dick.”

“You were on the lacrosse team,” Steve remembers.

He nods. “Yeah. I actually just kept the bench warm for most of high school, but I got onto the field eventually.”

“Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing,” John chimes in from the back. “He came home with plenty of bruises and the occasional broken bone.”

“I wasn’t the best player,” Stiles admits. “But I was stubborn.” They get stuck in traffic once they reach the main street and he glances at the theater. “I got arrested there.”

“Four times,” John mutters darkly. 

A smile teases the corners of Steve’s mouth. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

Stiles laughs. The traffic moves slightly and they crawl forward. 

“That’s my favorite diner,” he says, pointing to it. “Nowhere in New York can hold a candle to Mollie’s burgers. And the _fries_ , oh my god. I once ate so many fries I couldn’t actually walk home. Scott had to give me a ride home on the back of his motorcycle. Which wasn’t the best idea, because that thing was a total heap of junk, and we almost died at least twice on the journey.”

Steve snorts. “Also not particularly surprising,” he says.

Stiles grins, nudging the jeep forward again. “I got beat up there,” he murmurs. “Oh, and there. I got into a fight in there; I got arrested, but I gave the asshole a black eye, so I think it was a draw. Some jerk nearly broke my nose in that alley, but Allison kicked his ass.”

Steve looks at him, bemused. “And you say _I’ve_ never had a flight response.” 

He shrugs slightly. “I wasn’t very popular in high school.” 

Finally, they turn off, and the traffic is a lot lighter on the side roads. He drives past familiar buildings, new shops and old businesses that have been there forever, past the childhood homes of his friends and the various places he’d got up to mischief as a kid.

“See that wall?” he asks, nodding to it. The brick has been painted over, but already graffiti has cropped up in a few places. “That was the place where I got arrested for the first time. I was eleven.”

Steve frowns. “Did you graffiti it?”

“What? No. But Scott’s dad, the FBI agent, total dick, I’ve mentioned him before? Yeah, him. He decided that clearly I was up to no good and he arrested me.”

“He didn’t just _arrest_ you,” John says, old and still raw anger bleeding into his tone. “He left bruises on your damn arm.”

The frown on Steve’s face deepens. “He bruised and arrested a child. And he still works for the FBI?”

“I didn’t want to escalate it,” Stiles admits. “’Cause of Scott, and Melissa, and Mr McCall was already going after my dad, so. I got everyone to just leave it. Dad had words though.”

Steve doesn’t look particularly happy, so Stiles reaches out, giving his knee a brief, gentle squeeze. It isn’t exactly a happy memory from his childhood, especially as Mr McCall had been drunk at the time, but he’s mostly moved past it. For Scott’s sake, more than anything.

They turn and Stiles points to the park. “That’s where I got beat up for the first time,” he says. “I was ten, I ran my mouth off to some assholes a few years older, they didn’t appreciate it. I actually managed to climb up that big tree, the one by the fence, do you see it? They tried to climb up after me but couldn’t, so they got bored and left.” 

Steve’s jaw has gone tense, so Stiles quickly moves on, pointing out the various places from his childhood; the kid’s park where he once tumbled off the slide and skinned his knees, the DVD rental store where he briefly worked during his senior year of high school, the ice rink where he and Scott once snuck in after hours to impress Allison and Lydia.

And, finally, they reach his childhood home.

He climbs out, grabbing his backpack and his small weekend bag from the back. Steve retrieves his own and waits for Stiles to lock up before resting a broad hand on his back as they climb the porch steps to the front door.

It’s been almost a year since Stiles last stepped foot in his childhood home. Still, nothing has changed, and he feels a rush of warmth, a happy kind of nostalgia unfurling in his chest as he breathes in the familiar smell of lemon carpet cleaner and coffee. 

His dad’s already brewing a pot in the kitchen. Stiles dumps their bags at the bottom of the stairs and leads Steve through. 

He can’t help but smile as he looks around the kitchen. The chairs are in the exact same spot around the circular table. The cabinets still need a fresh lick of green paint and the coffee machine still rattles and gurgles like it’s taking it’s dying breath as it spits dark liquid into the pot. There’s a couple more photos pinned to the fridge and a new calendar with a vintage car theme. 

The date is circled several times in red, marking the day that Stiles is visiting, and it makes him smile to see how pleased his dad clearly is about them coming to see him. He squeezes his way past the table to get to the fridge. Even though his dad never uses them, the word magnets are still there, in the same formation Stiles had put them in last time he was here. He assembles another fridge poem before grabbing mugs from the shelf, handing them to his dad.

“Is chilli for dinner good with you?” John asks.

Stiles pauses, squinting slightly at him. “Are you gonna cook?”

His dad finishes pouring coffee and hands him a mug. “What’s wrong with my cooking?”

“What’s _right_ with it?” Stiles counters.

He snorts. “Fine. No, Melissa’s gonna come over.”

Stiles grins, pleased. “Really? That’s great.” He fixes Steve’s coffee just how he likes it before handing it over. “Melissa is Scott’s mom. She’s amazing.”

Steve smiles and glances at John. “Chilli is fine, sir.”

“Son, I’m gonna need you to stop with the ‘sir’. You’re making me feel old.”

“Well,” Steve replies, smirking slightly. “If it helps, I’m technically old enough to be your father.”

A horrified expression crosses John’s face. “That…doesn’t even remotely help.”

Stiles laughs, taking a sip of his coffee. His dad always makes it a little too strong and the bitterness is cloying on his tongue, but it’s another reminder of home, reminiscent of all the times Stiles would try and stay up to wait for his dad to get home, only to fall asleep on the couch. He’d wake up in the morning with a blanket tucked over him and a cup of coffee waiting for him on the table to help him wake up enough for school.

“What’s she putting in the chilli?” he asks.

John folds his arms. “Stiles.”

“Dad,” he counters, using the same exasperated tone. 

He sighs. “It’s a nice, healthy veggie chilli, no red meat at all.”

“Good,” Stiles replies, appeased.

“I haven’t missed the meddling in my health, you know.”

“You’re a liar. You definitely missed it. I’m a gift.”

John snorts but doesn’t dispute it. “I’ve put fresh sheets on your bed, since the others were a little dusty. And I’ve put clean sheets and spare towels in the guest room for Steve.” 

The message is pretty pointed. Pink crawls up Steve’s neck, his gaze sliding away from John. Stiles just groans, dropping his head back against one of the cupboards.

“Dad, I’m twenty-six,” he protests. “I’m an adult.”

“And you’re under my roof,” John replies easily.

“Look, Derek banged me in that bedroom many, _many_ times when I was eighteen, okay? So I think sharing a bed with my partner shouldn’t be a big deal.”

John looks horrified at the mention of Stiles’s sex life back when he was a teenager and Steve shifts slightly, a little uncomfortable. Stiles folds his arms, stubborn, but blinks in surprise when his dad suddenly cracks, snorting slightly with laughter.

“You’re still so easy to wind up, kid,” he says, ruffling Stiles’s hair. “Though I could’ve done without the Derek Hale comment.”

Stiles gives him his best scowl. “You’re a terrible father.”

John just smiles. Stiles shakes his head, finishing his coffee and ditching his mug in the sink. 

“Come on,” he says to Steve. “I’ll show you the bedroom.”

Steve takes everything in as they make their way down the hall and up the stairs, pausing to look at each of the photos. He smiles at the one of Stiles when he was twelve, with a fresh buzzcut and a goofy grin, wearing an oversized baseball outfit for Halloween. He stops to look at one of Stiles’s mom, holding him as a baby, brown eyes warm as she gazes at her son, her caramel hair spilling over her shoulders. One of Stiles’s hands is curled in the strands. 

“You look like her,” Steve says softly. 

Stiles nods, gazing at the photo. Even all these years later, there’s still that little ache, that sting of grief as he thinks about his mom, but now it’s mitigated by time and his ability to focus on the happy memories instead of the painful ones.

He lets Steve browse the other photos, waiting by the door to his childhood bedroom until Steve finally turns to him. He pushes the door open and steps inside, letting his weekend bag fall to the worn grey carpet.

His bedroom always seems so small now. Back when he was a kid, it had felt too large, too empty, as he’d curled up on the bed and focused too harshly on the silence. But now, when he’s used to the city and the suite he shares with Steve, it just feels like an ordinary bedroom, cramped with all of the belongings still stored in there despite how long it’s been since he moved out.

Steve looks at the surfing board propped up against one wall. “I didn’t know you could surf.”

“Technically, I can’t. But I wanted to learn and my dad supported it, even though he knew I’d lose interest after a few months. Which I did. I got fed up of choking down gross seawater every time I wiped out.” 

Steve smiles. He picks up the basketball on Stiles’s old desk, spinning it on one finger before he throws it over his shoulder at the hoop nailed to the wall. It sails through it, bouncing off the floor before rolling and coming to a rest against the side of Stiles’s dresser.

“Show off,” Stiles accuses fondly.

Steve shrugs slightly. He turns on the spot, taking in the posters littered over the walls. When he spots the Captain America one tacked above Stiles’s headboard, he glances at him, one eyebrow raised. Stiles smiles in response, shifting on the spot, a little embarrassed. He watches as Steve takes in the clutter on the bookshelf, one finger trailing across the spines of the books. He finds the comics, recognizes the stack of Captain America ones, and turns back to Stiles.

“So, this is awkward,” Stiles admits. “Yeah, I was a Cap fan growing up. I liked the comics. They’re kinda dumb now that I know the actual Captain America. Turns out, he’s kind of a dork.”

Steve laughs, curling one arm around Stiles’s shoulders. “I think it’s cute.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And it makes me even happier that you didn’t know who I was when you first met me. It means that, despite you being a fan of me when you were a kid, you liked me for _me_. I love that.”

Stiles smiles, kissing him softly. “Good.”

Steve pulls away. He looks out of the window, runs a finger along the top of the small telescope tucked in one corner of the room. “It’s very you. I knew it would be, but…I can see all of you in here. All of your interests.” He turns back to Stiles. “Your brain always seems kinda chaotic, but it makes sense here. It’s like you’ve laid out your whole mind in the clutter.”

“Yeah, okay, Shakespeare,” Stiles replies, laughing. “It’s a mess because I was a teenager. And I apparently had shit taste in music back then. I can’t believe I have some of these posters.” 

Steve smiles. “I like it.”

Stiles feels a silly little pleased thrill at that. It’s not like it’s a huge deal – it’s just a bedroom, one he hasn’t lived in since he was eighteen – but he realizes he’d been hoping that Steve would like it. 

“So, tomorrow, I’ll show you the sights. Spoiler alert: there aren’t many.”

Steve smiles. “It seems like a nice town.”

Stiles shrugs slightly. “It’s home.”

Dinner with Melissa goes well. The second Stiles answers the door, she’s hugging him, her hair tickling his face as she gives him a little squeeze. She smells of lavender laundry detergent and coconut shampoo and it’s so familiar, another reminder of his childhood, and he feels a little throb of fondness in his chest as he hugs her back.

“Hey, Melissa,” he says when he pulls back.

She ruffles his hair. “I missed you,” she replies. “But don’t think I’m happy with the fact that I had to hear from Scott that you’re dating a superhero.”

Stiles laughs. “Sorry.”

She waves off his apology, giving him another squeeze, and then she spots Steve. Typical of Melissa, there’s no wide eyed awe or starstruck stuttering; she treats him like she would anyone else, with polite warmth, giving him a hug like she’s known him for years. 

Stiles loves him, so that’s enough for Melissa to welcome him with open arms.

The chilli is incredible. Stiles has missed Melissa’s cooking. They eat at the kitchen table and Steve fits in perfectly, laughing at John’s terrible jokes and listening with polite attention as Melissa talks about the hospital and her painting class. They end up talking about art, which leaves Stiles and his dad to catch up on what they’ve both been up to in the last few months.

Stiles mostly skims over his training with SHIELD. He knows his dad is still concerned about it and always will be, so he focuses instead on how it’s going living in the Avengers tower, how Scott is, what his friends have been up to. 

Steve insists on washing up and Stiles helps, drying and putting everything away. Melissa stays for a little while longer, chatting with Stiles’s dad, and he sends glances their way, smiling slightly. The two of them have been dancing around each other for years and Stiles and Scott have not so secretly hoped for just as long that they might actually become brothers by marriage someday. 

They’re still ‘just friends’, but Stiles can see that easy warmth and affection between them. He hopes that they might take that next step before Stiles gets old and wrinkly. They deserve to be happy.

Once Melissa heads out, the three of them end up in the living room, one of his dad’s favorite documentaries playing on the TV. This week, it’s about fishing, which Stiles doesn’t really have much interest in. It’s a lot more fun watching Steve interact with Stiles’s dad. 

It’s rare he gets to see Steve looking awkward or nervous. He’s always in command of himself, always so in control and so _certain_ of it all that his presence, that strength, fills up the entire room. It’s why he’s such a good leader. It’s hard _not_ to want to follow a guy like that. 

But it’s cute and more than a little amusing to watch Steve be so tentative as he talks to John, clearly worried about ruining the good impression he’s so far made on Stiles’s dad.

Eventually, he calls it quits for the night, clearing up the beer bottles. His dad shuffles up to bed, reminding Stiles to lock the door, voice splitting around a yawn. Smiling, Stiles obliges, making sure the house is secure before heading up to his old bedroom.

He lets Steve use the shared bathroom first and changes into his Captain America sweatpants and a fraying grey shirt. He turns the blankets back, moving one of the pillows over to the side facing the wall, because he prefers to sleep with at least three pillows and he knows Steve will want to sleep between Stiles and the door, just as he does in their own room back in the tower.

He brushes his teeth and flicks out the bedroom light when he returns, closing the door behind him. He crawls into bed, getting comfortable. He’s not really used to sleeping in the side closer to the wall; when he sleeps on his own, he tends to toss and turn and sprawl out, taking up the whole space, but he always wakes up on the side next to his nightstand, where his phone and the alarm clock are.

But Steve relaxes as he joins Stiles. It’s a habit of his, preferring to sleep between Stiles and potential danger, even though logically they both know that the closest thing to a threat is a chilly draft coming from the old, ill fitted window.

Steve settles with his chest against Stiles’s back, their legs tangling together. One hand rests on Stiles’s stomach as he presses a gentle kiss to Stiles’s neck.

It should be weird to have Steve in his old bed, but it’s not. It feels right, warm and comfortable and perfect, and Stiles drifts asleep easily.

***

Stiles wakes up first.

He yawns into his pillow, feeling warm and comfortable, despite sleeping on his old, cheap mattress. Steve’s arm is draped over his waist and Stiles snuggles back, smiling slightly when he feels that Steve is hard, pressing into the curve of Stiles’s ass.

He rocks back slightly, grinding into Steve, and is rewarded by the grip on his hip tightening slightly. Steve’s mouth presses against his neck a second later.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Stiles murmurs.

Steve kisses Stiles’s neck, pressing his hips forward, his moan barely more than a soft exhale against Stiles’s skin. Stiles grinds back again, tipping his head slightly to give Steve better access to his neck. Steve’s hand slides down his stomach, underneath the waistband of his sweatpants, and he feels Steve smile against his throat when he finds Stiles already hard and aching for him. He strokes a couple of times and Stiles curls his fingers around his pillow, biting his lip against a gasp.

“Fuck,” he manages. “Yeah, Steve, c’mon.” 

Steve pulls Stiles even closer against his body and Stiles reaches back with one hand, curls it over Steve’s thigh. Through the thin fabric of his pajama pants, Stiles can feel the play of his muscles, the way his thigh tenses as he moves, and something that simple shouldn’t be so goddamn attractive, but it _is_. 

“I’ve got you,” Steve breathes, nipping at the hinge of Stiles’s jaw as he brushes his thumb in a circle, right underneath the head of Stiles’s cock. 

Stiles moans. 

Loudly.

Instantly, Steve goes still. “Wait,” he whispers. “Your father.”

Stiles laughs, wrapping his hand around Steve’s wrist, encouraging him to carry on. “Isn’t home,” he promises. “He volunteers at the local youth homelessness outreach centre on Saturday mornings. He won’t be back for another three hours.”

Steve relaxes, smiling against Stiles’s neck. “So, we have plenty of time, then?”

Stiles grins, arching into Steve’s touch. “I’m all yours.”

Steve gives a little twitch at that, which is definitely interesting, and Stiles tilts his head to look at him as he rocks back, raising one eyebrow in question.

Steve’s avoids his gaze as he murmurs, muffled into Stiles’s throat, “I’m just…aware that there have been other partners. In this bed.”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s…I’m sorry. I’m not jealous. Not really.” Steve pulls back. “I just…”

“You want to be the _best_ ,” Stiles finishes, smirking. “You want to make sure I only ever remember _you_ in this bed.”

“It sounds awful, I know.”

Stiles laughs, grabbing Steve’s hand so he can’t withdraw entirely. “Steve, baby, I know you’re not that kind of person. I’m not bothered. I _like_ it when you get a tiny bit possessive. It makes me feel wanted, okay? Cherished. As dorky as that sounds.”

“You are,” Steve promises, voice dipping lower, throaty with his arousal. “Completely cherished.”

Stiles stretches until he can kiss him and Steve responds instantly, not caring about morning breath as he deepens the kiss, tongue brushing against Stiles’s. He tugs at Stiles’s sweatpants, pushing them down with his own pajama bottoms, and then Stiles can feel him without the fabric as a barrier, hot and hard against his ass.

He thrusts, slow and languid, and keeps stroking Stiles in rhythm as they swap lazy, deep kisses. Stiles comes first, trembling through it, gasping slightly as he spills over Steve’s hand. Steve follows a minute later, pressing tight against Stiles, and Stiles can feel the warm, wet sensation of Steve’s come on his ass. He sighs happily, bringing Steve’s hand up so he can lick it clean before kissing the palm.

Steve nuzzles at Stiles’s neck, sweet and affectionate, extra cuddly like he always is after an orgasm. Eventually, though, he pulls back so he can grab his own discarded shirt from the day before off the floor, using it to clean them both up. 

Stiles nudges him onto his back and shifts to lie on top of him, nipping kisses along Steve’s jaw. He bumps their noses together before resting his chin on Steve’s chest, looking up at him with a smile.

“Steve, baby?”

Steve slowly drags his knuckles down Stiles’s spine, touch feather-light, bordering on ticklish. “Yeah?”

“You’re the best I’ve ever had.”

Steve opens his eyes. They hadn’t closed the blinds before going to bed and winter sunlight streams through the window, making the beautiful blue of Steve’s eyes look like the ocean in July. It catches in Steve’s hair, makes the blond locks look even more breathtakingly perfect, and it really is unfair just how good looking Steve is.

“Seriously,” Stiles adds, because he’s being honest. “I’ve never had sex as incredible as it is with you.”

He used to think Derek was the best sex he’d ever had. Partially because his first time bottoming was with Derek, and partially because sex with Derek was always, _always_ good. Always blazing hot, consuming Stiles, rough and intoxicating and intense. He’d always come at least twice and leave the bed with hickeys marring his pale skin and beard burn on his thighs. 

But even the few awkward, too-sleepy or too-fast fumbles he’s had with Steve have been better than any sex Stiles has experienced before. Because he can _laugh_ with Steve, can just enjoy sex in all of its forms. There’s no pressure, just pure enjoyment. And Steve is ridiculously good in bed, intent on giving Stiles as much pleasure as he can handle, rather than focused entirely on his own release.

Steve smiles, pleased. His cock is already hardening again, twitching against Stiles, and he grins, shifting to sit up, straddling Steve’s lap.

“You know, when I was a teenager, I had a _lot_ of fantasies about Captain America,” he murmurs. “Got me off faster than anything else. Didn’t even need porn. And it’s just occurred to me that, while you don’t have your uniform, there are plenty of other fantasies of mine we can recreate in this very bed.” 

Steve’s hands flex on Stiles’s hips. “I kinda want to hear about these uniform fantasies.”

Stiles laughs, leaning down to kiss him. “When we get back home,” he promises.

He reaches to the nightstand, tugging the drawer open, and sure enough, there’s a bottle of lube stashed at the back. Steve sits up, peering into the drawer curiously, eyeing up the variety of flavoured condoms, the toy tucked against one side, next to a cock ring. He raises an eyebrow slightly.

Stiles shrugs. “I’ve always liked sex. Even when it was just me experimenting by myself.”

Steve hums, picking up one of the condoms. “Apple pie flavoured.”

He grins. “Mm, my favorite. Save it, I’ll go down on you later.” He prefers it without, prefers to feel Steve come in his mouth; he loves the look on Steve’s face when he swallows everything Steve has to give. But he can’t resist the allure of sucking Steve off with an apple pie flavoured condom.

Steve tucks the condom back in the drawer, lying back again. Stiles unscrews the cap from the bottle and starts to tilt it, but Steve reaches out, expression expectant. More often than not, he insists on preparing Stiles himself. He seems to enjoy it almost as much as actually fucking him. 

And, really. Steve has incredible hands and long, clever fingers. He knows Stiles’s body so intimately, knows just how to give him the most pleasure, so it’s not like Stiles is going to complain about it.

He braces himself on Steve’s chest so he can give him the space he needs to slide a slick finger inside him. He’s a little oversensitive still from his first orgasm, but he bears through the initial overwhelming sensation until it fizzles into pure pleasure. He rocks back against Steve’s hand, moaning quietly, and it isn’t long before he’s hard again. 

Steve gets him ready slowly, teasing him, angling to reach the spot that makes Stiles cry out and writhe, smearing precome against his belly as his toes curl. Even after Stiles is slick and loose, he carries on, until Stiles manages a wrecked, “Steve, baby, _please_.” 

Finally, he withdraws his hand and uses more lube to get his cock nice and wet. Stiles braces his hands on Steve’s chest as he slowly sits down on him, working his hips in little minute twitches as he slides down inch by inch, taking the time to accommodate Steve until he’s fully seated.

It’s always so deep like this, Steve big and hard inside him, filling him until he feels hot and desperate and on the edge of being overwhelmed. Steve’s hands grip Stiles’s hips and he rocks up, moving with Stiles as he starts to fuck himself on Steve’s dick.

“Oh god,” he breathes out. “Steve. _Steve_.”

“I’ve got you,” Steve says again, his own voice wrecked. He’s gazing up at Stiles, pupils blown wide, his face flushed and lips parted in pleasure. He thrusts up a little harder, swallowing when Stiles cries out in response.

He gives up on the slow pace, starts to bounce, fingers curling slightly on Steve’s chest as he tips his head back, moans spilling from his mouth. 

Back at home, the mattress is incredibly expensive, the bedframe solid; no matter how rough they go, apart from the sound of their bodies and their cries of pleasure, the noise is minimal. But on Stiles’s old bed, with the rattling frame and old mattress, it’s _loud_ , the bed creaking and the mattress springs squeaking, adding a surprisingly dirty thrill as they fuck.

He remembers it, vaguely, from years ago; having to move slower, more carefully, biting down on his own hand to keep as quiet as possible so he wouldn’t wake his dad. But now, there isn’t anyone home and Stiles can be as loud as he wants, as loud as he _needs_ , and he doesn’t hold back as he cries out, back arched.

He doesn’t know what filthy things he’s saying to encourage Steve on, but it makes Steve moan, thighs tensing, chest heaving as he moves with Stiles. 

“Fuck, there, right there – _Steve_ ,” Stiles gasps, toes curling. “Oh god, Steve, baby – _Steve_.”

Steve braces Stiles with one hand as he curls the other around Stiles’s cock, stroking fast, until Stiles tumbles over the edge, shouting Steve’s name as he comes hard, trembling as it shatters him from the inside out. He feels weak-kneed and breathless after, falling forward to rest his forehead against Steve’s as he keeps moving, corkscrewing his hips slightly and clenching, working to get Steve off. 

Finally, Steve surges up, kissing Stiles desperately, crying out into his mouth as he empties inside him, fucking into him deep as his hips twitch and he shudders. For a long moment, he stays there, hands tight on Stiles’s hips before he collapses back, sweaty and breathless.

Stiles pulls off carefully, wincing slightly. Steve runs a gentle hand over Stiles’s hip to soothe him, helping to guide him as Stiles faceplants the pillow next to Steve. 

“As good as your fantasies?” Steve murmurs.

He smiles. “Better. So much better, you have _no_ idea. I can’t feel my legs, Steve. How do you _do_ this to me?”

“Right back at you,” he replies fondly, scooting closer to kiss Stiles softly.

“Mm. You know, there was one particular scenario I liked a lot. Captain America fucking me up against the wall.”

Steve groans slightly. It’s something they have done before and he knows it’s a position Steve particularly loves. It’s one of Stiles’s favorites, too; it means Steve has to use his strength to hold Stiles up and keep them balanced as he thrusts into him. 

“But that might have to wait until we get back home,” he adds thoughtfully. “Because I always imagined that with you in your uniform. The leather gloves against my skin, your cowl tugged back, hair a mess as you fucked me. The sensation of your uniform against my naked body, the way it would look when I came all over it.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Steve breathes, nipping at his bottom lip.

Stiles smiles. He knows Steve can go at least one more round, could get hard pretty quickly if Stiles put effort into it. Stiles can’t; as turned on as he is, he’s just had two orgasms in pretty rapid succession, and he’s not a teenager anymore and he doesn’t have Steve’s impressive refractory period. It’ll take him a couple of hours at least until he can get hard without it being too sensitive. 

But that doesn’t stop him from leaning in to murmur in Steve’s ear, telling him all of the things he’s always fantasized about doing to him, until Steve is hard and desperate again, grinding against Stiles’s hip as he hangs on to every filthy word.

After all, Stiles is a giver.

And he loves getting Steve off, as many times as he possibly can.

***

Eventually, they drag themselves out of bed and take a shower together.

Unlike the large, modern one in their suite at the tower, the little shower is a tight squeeze, Steve plastered against Stiles’s back as he washes his hair, and, inevitably, he feels Steve react to the close proximity. They end up lingering a little too long under the spray, until Steve has come again down Stiles’s throat and the water’s starting to go cold, and Stiles laughs at how blissfully sated Steve looks as they step out of the shower and grab towels.

Steve after an orgasm is beautiful. Cuddly, happy, obviously very pleased. But Steve after several orgasms? Is a goddamn _delight_. He looks wrecked, loose limbed and satisfied to the point of smugness, nuzzling into Stiles’s throat in affectionate gratitude as he tries to dry off. 

“Do you feel up for a run?” he asks as he ruffles Steve’s damp hair with the towel, deliberately leaving it in an adorable mess. 

“ _You_ want to go for a run?” Steve replies. “On our vacation?”

“I used to run a lot back in high school,” Stiles explains with a shrug. “It helped when everything got a bit too much in my head sometimes. There’s some nice routes, I thought I’d show them to you. I think you’d like it.”

Steve smiles, nodding. “I’m always up for a run.”

Stiles changes into clothes suitable for running, especially in the cold weather. There’s a hickey on his throat that he gives Steve an unimpressed look for; Steve offers an appropriately sheepish expression in response.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I got carried away.”

Stiles shakes his head, smiling. “Lucky it’s winter. I can wear a scarf.”

He strips the bed, running the sheets through the laundry, and once they’re finished in the dryer he puts them back on the bed, smooth and clean and showing no signs of what they’d spent the morning doing. 

Stiles empties his backpack so he can stash a scarf, a water bottle and two granola bars inside, then heads downstairs with it. 

Steve is big on breakfast, even on the rare occasions they end up staying in bed for most of the morning, especially before a workout. Stiles fixes some fruit and yogurt for them both with coffee for himself and a glass of orange juice for Steve. As Steve washes up after them, Stiles leaves a quick note on the fridge for his dad to let him know they’ve gone for a run.

It’s a bit of a walk to the preserve, but it gives them time to let their breakfast settle. Stiles holds Steve’s hand as they walk, pointing out a few things, telling Steve little anecdotes or facts about the town, and even though it’s probably pretty boring, he listens with quiet attentiveness, smiling occasionally at a few stories about Stiles and Scott getting themselves into sticky situations, like the time they got kicked out of the Jungle nightclub for being underage. 

They reach the preserve and stick to one of the main trails for a while until Stiles veers off onto a lesser known, hardly used route. He adjusts his backpack; it’s not really heavy, but it reminds him of his runs with Clint in a way that’s strangely comforting. They set off, Steve checking his pace so he doesn’t disappear off ahead of Stiles.

It’s probably a little physically frustrating for Steve, not being able to _really_ run, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just keeps pace at Stiles’s side. Since it isn’t a marked route, the undergrowth is thick and it’s a challenge, with steep hills and dips, tree roots trying to trip them up and low hanging branches almost slapping Stiles in the face until he remembers to duck. 

In the spring and summer, and even in the Fall, the preserve is glorious. The colors and wildlife are stunning, a swath of natural beauty that still catches Stiles off guard despite having grown up with it. Even now, with the trees bare of leaves and frost clinging to the ground, making it damp and a little slippery, most of the wildlife tucked away out of the cold, it’s beautiful in an eerily still, silent kind of way. Stiles’s breath mists white in front of him as he jogs, the exercise warming him up, warding off the crisp chill in the air. 

The run takes them to a little mini waterfall, cold water cascading over a little ledge of rocks and into a narrow, twisting stream. Steve pauses, giving Stiles a break as he catches his breath, taking in their surroundings. His hand twitches slightly, the way it does when he’s silently wishing that he had his art supplies with him, and Stiles smiles. He’d known Steve would love the natural scenery. He’s a Brooklyn boy at heart, always, but he appreciates wildlife and greenery, loves finding the places where concrete and glass and civilization hasn’t taken over and nature has been preserved. 

Stiles takes a drink from his bottle of water before they set off again. They find a bridge, an old, wooden, rickety thing that’s hardly been used in years, the boards rotted and broken through in places. Steve tests his weight on it and, wisely, decides to carefully move from rock to rock to cross the stream instead. Stiles follows, managing to not get his shoes wet, although he does slip on the muddy bank and Steve has to catch his elbow to stop him from falling on his ass.

They head up a steep incline onto elevated ground, where they can see the tops of the smaller trees and the stream widening below and to their right, meandering alongside the barely trodden path. Finally, they emerge from the trees that border the edge of a rocky helm.

It’s not tall enough to really be a cliff, more of a crag, steep and overlooking the preserve. In the distance, some of the town is visible. The rock is still there, near the precipice, and Stiles moves to sit down on it, smoothing his fingers over the familiar, smooth, slightly damp surface. 

Below them, a small lake peeks out from the trees, the surface glittering in the winter sunlight. It’s windy up here, sharp enough to make Stiles shiver slightly, sweat cooling on his skin. The sky stretches out above the tops of the trees, grey but bright, making his eyes a little sore as he looks at it. The lake casts off the rays of sun, sparkling like a frosted diamond, and everything is a little too bright, a little too clean, but it’s beautiful. The crisp air feels refreshing in Stiles’s lungs, the peacefulness of the nature surrounding them soothing. 

Steve sits down next to him, just absorbing the sight of the preserve and the lake. The wind plays in his hair, ruffling the blond strands until a lock falls over his forehead.   
Everything around them is gorgeous but bland and dead, the bleak sky merging into the bare limbs of the trees, but Steve is so beautifully alive, a flush on his cheeks from the cold, his eyes richly blue and sparkling with carefree happiness. His hair shines like pale gold in the flat sunlight and the strong line of his jaw is a striking outline against the dull brown of the tree trunks behind them.

They’re surrounded by some of the best natural beauty Stiles has ever come across, and Steve is still the most gorgeous thing he’s ever laid eyes on. 

“It’s beautiful,” Steve says, gazing out over the stretching patchwork of trees, some of them bleached white by the sun, others brown or grey, some with a few stubborn leaves clinging to the spindly branches.

Stiles nods. “I used to come up here a lot,” he says. “Especially at night. When it got too much, I could just sit here and watch the stars for a while. At night, you can see the lights on in the town, little dots of yellow in the darkness, and it’s so quiet and still. It helped a lot when I needed to be completely alone.”

Steve looks at him, thoughtful. “You weren’t really happy here, were you?” he asks softly.

Stiles smooths his palms over the rock, letting the damp coldness seep into his skin, leeching the warmth from his body. The surface has been buffered by the wind, the stone sunk into the ground to provide a bench for any hikers looking for a nice view. He shrugs slightly.

“I wasn’t _un_ happy, most of the time,” he replies. “I just…I dunno. There were times when I thought this town would swallow me whole.”

Steve reaches out, resting a hand on Stiles’s thigh. “I think I can understand that feeling,” he murmurs. “It’s how I felt when I first woke up from the ice. I looked at the city and it was so different, so unfamiliar to me, and it felt like it would consume me.”

Stiles pauses, mouth twitching slightly. “Steve,” he says, tone fond. “I love you, but you need to stop empathising with people using the whole waking up seventy years in the future thing. It really trumps everyone else.” 

Steve laughs slightly, shaking his head. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

He scoots closer into Steve’s side, letting the warmth of his body press into Stiles’s skin. He leans his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“My mom died,” he murmurs. “And my dad was distant for a while. It’s not really his fault. He did his best, but his wife had just died, he had a kid he was suddenly solely responsible for, and, trust me, I wasn’t the easiest child to parent. Plus he had to work more to keep the house running on a single income. Between the stress and the grief and the alcohol…for a while, it felt like I was trying to look after myself _and_ him. I didn’t get chance to grieve at first, since my dad was my priority. I felt lost and I couldn’t really control the whole...focus problems I have back then, so everything would get all fast and chaotic in my head and I didn’t know how to deal with it. Not to mention the anxiety. The panic attacks were the worst.” 

“I didn’t know you had panic attacks,” Steve says softly, sliding one arm around Stiles’s shoulders.

“It’s not in my file?” 

“I haven’t read it, especially because I know there’s notes in there on psychological stuff. It felt invasive and wrong to pry.”

Tenderness aches in Stiles’s chest. He presses a soft kiss to Steve’s jaw, offering his wordless gratitude, before he continues, gaze fixed on the horizon.

“I felt lost and alone for a long time. I had Scott, but he was dealing with his own stuff regarding his dad. School was rough. I had some great teachers, ones who seemed to understand me, and others who were massive dicks. Plus, it was different back then. You know about Jackson. Lydia was dealing with her own stuff and never really acknowledged me until our senior year. It was just me and Scott, and then Allison.” He shrugs slightly. “I mean, it sounds dramatic when I put it like that. I wasn’t miserable or anything. There’s a hell of a lot of good memories here. And my dad and I got things right eventually. I think we’re closer for it, actually; he supported me a lot during high school and when I chose to move away for college. I had Scott and Allison. And Melissa.”

“You and she are close,” Steve murmurs.

“She’s never been…a _replacement_ or anything, but she’s always been there for me if I needed, even when I was a pain in the ass. She never tried to be a mom to me, but she loved me like another son. I would’ve struggled a lot more if she wasn’t around.” Stiles smiles slightly. “And then I moved for college. I realized I loved New York, I loved living in such a big, busy city, where I can be anonymous, away from the small town where everyone knew me and judged me because I was the Sheriff’s son and I wasn’t perfect. Lydia and I grew closer. Jackson and I became friends. Scott moved out for grad school. I met Erica, Boyd and Isaac, became friends with Derek after things fell apart between us, which lead to me becoming close to Laura and Cora. Malia and I are close friends now. Danny helped me a lot when I was trying to get used to the city. I found where I wanted to be in life. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like Beacon Hills, or that I was unhappy here. It’ll always be home.”

Steve nods, squeezing his shoulders gently. They lapse into a comfortable silence, just enjoying the view for a while.

“It seems so small now,” Steve says eventually. “The town, I mean. So small and harmless. I don’t feel like it could consume me now. It’s the other way around.”

Steve presses a kiss to his temple. “Thank you. For showing me this place. I like knowing you and knowing about the place you grew up in. I’m sorry it wasn’t always easy.”

Stiles shrugs. “That’s life. And I was an angsty teenager. When is growing up _ever_ easy in a teenager’s eyes?” He smiles when Steve laughs, squeezing his thigh gently. “I’m sorry, too. I can’t even begin to understand what it was like to wake up to find everything you knew and loved is gone. Do you wish you could go back?”

“I used to. All the time. For too long, I got too wrapped up in wishing for that and I let it eat away at me. But not anymore. I have a purpose and a life here. A life I enjoy. I have friends, the team, and Bucky. I have you.” Steve punctuates that with a chaste kiss. “I’ll always miss parts of my old life. I’ll always carry grief for Peggy, but I managed to move on, from her, from my own time, from the world I knew. I don’t regret waking up anymore. In fact, I’m glad I did.”

Stiles closes his eyes, giving another little squeeze. 

Soon, the wind turns a little sharper, cold enough to breathe goosebumps into life across Stiles’s skin, so he stands, zipping up his lightweight hoodie. Dark clouds have started rolling in on the horizon, threatening rain, and he can feel the slight dampness in the air. It kisses at the back of his neck, promising a small storm.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: mention of amputation and phantom pains, graphic violence, gore, graphic and gory death, and description of blood.

They jog a little faster on the trip back, both to keep warm and to try and get out of the preserve before the rain hits, turning the ground into soggy mud and dirt. Once they reach the main trail, Stiles slows to a walk, catching his breath as they follow it out to the road leading back into town. Next to him, Steve is barely out of breath, but his cheeks are a little flushed from the exercise. It’s a good look on him.

Stiles digs into his backpack, handing Steve a bottle of water and the granola bars. With his metabolism, he needs them after a run. He drinks steadily from his own bottle as they walk, soothing his thirst before screwing the cap back on and tucking it into his backpack.

The rain starts falling when they’re halfway back to the house, cold, fat droplets splashing down on them, but they make it back before it starts slanting down heavily. Still, Steve’s hair is a little damp and Stiles can feel the uncomfortable, wet slide of cold rain trailing down his neck and underneath the collar of his shirt. 

His dad’s car is on the drive, so he pulls his scarf out of his backpack, winding it around his neck before stepping inside the house.

The heating is on, immediately chasing away the chill on Stiles’s skin, and the rich smell of coffee reaches them from the kitchen. Stiles nudges the door shut with his foot, loops one strap of his backpack over the stair banister, and shoves off his running shoes so he doesn’t track dirt on the carpet as he heads into the kitchen.

His dad’s sat at the table. He’s not wearing his prosthetic and he has his thigh up on a cushioned chair, his expression taut with pain. He glances up when he hears Stiles and Steve and snorts when he notices the scarf.

“That didn’t fool anyone when you were eighteen, kiddo,” he says. “What makes you think it will now?”

“You live to embarrass me, don’t you?” Stiles mutters.

His dad grins. “Absolutely.”

The smile is tight and he’s clearly distracted. He’s wearing sweatpants, the right leg rolled up to expose his right thigh; they’d had to amputate a few inches above the knee. 

“Are you getting phantom pains?” Stiles asks, frowning.

“Little bit,” he admits. “Don’t worry about it.”

Like that’s going to stop the concern that thunders through Stiles. He knows the phantom pains are better than they were right after the surgery, but it’s been a few years, and he’s aware that the doctors have suggested that the only option if the pains continue is going under the knife again. His dad doesn’t want to go through that, but it’s horrible to see him suffering. 

He grabs his dad’s medicine from the cupboard and pours a glass of water, setting both down on the table. Steve wordlessly disappears in search of a hot water bottle. Stiles knows that he’s spent time visiting veterans, learning about amputation and prosthetics and the long recovery from losing a limb. He’s been involved in VA groups with a friend of his in Washington and it’s helped him to learn the different ways to help someone like Stiles’s dad.

“Do you need the mirror box?” Stiles asks, watching his dad swallow down the tablets with a gulp of water.

He shakes his head. “It’s not that bad. It’ll probably pass soon.”

Stiles eyes him, searching his face for any hint of a lie, and is relieved to see that his dad actually means it. He hates Stiles seeing him in pain or struggling, so he’s had a tendency in the past to play down the phantom pains, not wanting to be a burden on his son. 

Steve returns with the water bottle and Stiles wraps a towel around it so the heat won’t be too much on the sensitive skin around the amputation area. Then he fixes coffee for the three of them and sits down opposite his dad.

“How was volunteering?” he asks. Distraction is another good way to help him.

“Good. I’m gonna do a couple more days next week; we’re always busier in the winter. How was your run?”

Stiles smiles. “I took Steve to the preserve, showed him the sights. He liked it.” 

John nods, looking at Steve. “I’ve seen you run. Hell of a sight. And footage of you fighting. You’re a force to be reckoned with, huh?”

“So is Stiles, s – John,” Steve replies, rubbing the back of his neck slightly. 

“And I sure as hell know it,” John agrees with a snort of laughter. “I’m sure I started going grey early because of him.”

“I like to keep you on your toes, old man,” Stiles says easily. “You’d have been too bored if I was a nice, quiet kid.”

“Bored, but a lot less stressed.” John takes a sip from his coffee. “What are your plans this afternoon?”

Stiles shrugs. “We could watch a movie? Or I could take a look at the fence. You said some of the panels at the back need fixing, right?”

John pulls a face. “Aw, Stiles, no. You’re not gonna waste the day staying here with me.”

“I _want_ to. It’s not wasting the day. You’re hurting and I can -.”

“Help?” John finishes, a little sharply. “Kid, I can take care of myself perfectly fine. I do it all the time when you’re not visiting, don’t I?”

Stiles winces slightly. “I didn’t mean it like _that_. Like you _need_ help. But I want to.” 

“You leave tomorrow. You should show Steve around the town properly, enjoy your weekend away. I’ll be fine.”

“We came here to visit _you_ , dad.”

John waves a hand. “You’ll be seeing me in a few weeks anyway.”

He has a point. John and Melissa will be flying to New York for Christmas this year. Scott and his mom will be spending it with Stiles, Steve and John now he and Allison are no longer together.

He hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Stiles, son, I love you, but if you start smothering me, I’m gonna end up throttling you.”

Stiles laughs, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. But I’m cooking dinner. No takeout.”

“Jeez, who is the father here again?”

“Don’t make me ask Steve to pull out his Captain voice.”

Steve shakes his head, smiling slightly. “Stiles.”

“No takeout,” John agrees, a little sullenly.

Stiles stands, bending to hug his dad briefly before heading upstairs. He and Steve shower separately this time to avoid getting distracted like they did earlier; Stiles goes first and is dried off and dressed in jeans and plaid layered over a Henley by the time Steve joins him in the bedroom. 

He leans back on the bed, watching with appreciation as Steve gets dressed, showing off a frankly glorious display of muscle and smooth skin. Stiles loves the golden fuzz on his legs, how the hair between his legs is several shades darker than the pale blond of his head, the way his ass bounces slightly as he tugs on his jeans and buckles the belt.

“Stop it,” Steve says without turning around, a smile in his voice.

Stiles laughs. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You keep looking at me like that and we’ll have to book a hotel.”

Stiles grins, standing to smooth his hands up Steve’s stomach and chest, kissing him before grabbing a shirt for him. Steve tugs a thin cable knit sweater on over the top and, really, it’s almost offensive how good he can look while dressed like a total suburban dad. 

Stiles grabs his jacket, tugging it on. He’d ended up relinquishing Steve’s coat, buying his own that fits him a little better. It’s second hand, soft, worn black leather, which isn’t something he’d usually go for – he’s more of a hoodie or denim jacket kind of guy – but Allison had talked him into it. 

“We’re _spies_ now,” she’d teased, laughing as he’d turned to look at the jacket from all angles in the mirror. “We have to wear badass leather. I’m pretty sure it’s actually a rule.”

He leaves it unzipped, since he’s wearing two layers under it, but wraps his scarf back around his throat. Steve tugs on his own brown leather jacket and they head downstairs, Stiles stopping briefly in the kitchen to check on his dad before they leave.

“I can drive,” Steve offers. “How’s the jeep for off-roading? It looked like there were some good places for it out by the preserve.”

“Uh, yeah, _no_. I’m not submitting my poor Roscoe to your driving.”

Steve grins but climbs into the passenger side. Stiles buckles his seatbelt and sets off. It’s creeping towards the middle of the afternoon, so there’s not much traffic just yet, and they reach the main street in town pretty quickly.

“You’re a more cautious driver than I’d expected,” Steve remarks.

“My dad was a cop,” Stiles reminds him. “I had to sit through three safe-driving lectures before I even turned old enough to learn to drive. The one and only time I got a speeding ticket – which I maintain _wasn’t_ my fault, by the way – he grounded me for a month.”

“He cares about you,” Steve says softly. 

Stiles nods. “We take care of each other. Have done since mom passed.”

He nudges the jeep into a parking spot and cuts the engine, climbing out. Steve joins him as Stiles locks up, his stomach growling loud enough to be heard over the traffic, and Stiles laughs.

“Good job I’m taking you for burgers, huh?”

Steve smiles, letting Stiles lead the way. Stiles’s favorite diner has always been a permanent fixture in Beacon Hills. He remembers slurping down shakes as a tiny kid, his mom holding the straw for him. He’d gone there at least once a week for years, right up until he moved away for college.

It hasn’t changed much. The décor has been updated periodically and the menu has some alterations, but it’s still as familiar to Stiles as the back of his own hand. It’s small, with a relaxed, rustic kind of charm. Music plays quietly from the radio behind the counter, where a few truckers are sat on stools nursing mugs of coffee and food, clearly taking a break on their way through the town. 

Mollie herself hasn’t changed much, either, although there’s a little more grey in her auburn hair, a few more lines on her face. Stiles knows her mom passed away a few years ago and now Mollie’s own daughter, Dawn, has graduated college and stepped up to help run the business. 

Stiles sits down at one of the smaller booths, the plastic seat crackling underneath him as he settles. Steve sits opposite him. 

“There used to be another diner just down the street,” Stiles says. “But they didn’t last long. They had a retro 80’s theme, super tacky.”

“Not really retro for me,” Steve points out, smiling. “One of the decades I missed.”

Stiles grins. Mollie ducks out from behind the counter, making her way over. She has new tattoos on her arms, both sleeves complete, and she still favors bright pastel clothing. She looks bright and welcoming against the backdrop of the dreary rain outside the window.

“Stiles,” she says, ruffling his hair. “Your dad mentioned you were gonna visit. It’s been…what? A year?”

“Near enough,” Stiles replies, nodding. “It’s good to see you, Mollie. This is my partner, Steve.”

Mollie smiles slightly. “I know who he is. I do actually own a TV, you know. What can I get you both?”

Stiles relaxes. He’s always loved how frank Mollie is, how she’s never been one to get starstruck or involved in gossip. She doesn’t even bat an eyelid at having a famous superhero sat in her diner, just looks at him expectantly like he’s any other customer.

They both order and Mollie gives Stiles another fond pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen. Dawn takes point at the counter, giving Stiles a friendly wave as she refills a few mugs of coffee.

Steve eyes the menu. “They have a ‘Freedom Sundae’.” 

Stiles laughs. “Oh, yeah. One of Dawn’s additions to the menu to appeal to the superhero fanbase. It’s layered red, white and blue, with star sprinkles. They have a Hulk milkshake, too. It’s mint chocolate, Scott says it’s really good.”

Steve smiles. His foot nudges against Stiles’s foot under the table, gaze warm and fond. Their food arrives pretty quickly and the familiar smell of spicy curly fries and onion rings is kind of comforting. 

He gazes at Steve as he eats. He’d expected Steve to look out of place in his hometown, but strangely, he fits right in. He looks like he belongs.

Stiles has never felt like he really belonged, for a myriad of reasons. But it’s comforting to see Steve look so at ease. 

It’s starting to rain harder, slanting sideways and slamming into the window with a loud patter. It turns the sidewalk slick and shiny, the road awash with water, the drains overfilling slightly. The bleak sky seems to bleach everything grey, broken only by the occasional gleam of yellow headlights as a car trundles past, splashing through puddles and sending a wave of water onto the sidewalk. Stiles watches a woman jump back, nearly losing her umbrella in a sudden sharp gust of wind. Water sloshes over her high heels and she makes a rude gesture after the car that splashed her.

A man walks past, hunched into his jacket, and he glances to the left, meets Stiles’s gaze – and pauses. Recognition flickers across his face and then he’s pushing into the diner, cheeks ruddy red, a grin on his face.

“Bilinski!” he says cheerfully.

“Stilinski,” Stiles corrects. “ _Stiles_. Hey, Greenberg.”

Greenberg shoves his hat off, shaking his head slightly like a wet dog to get water droplets out of his hair. “Hey, man. How’s it going?” His gaze is already on Steve though, eyes wide and awe struck. “Holy shit, Stiles. I mean, I heard you were dating Captain America, but you actually _are_.”

Stiles chews on a curly fry. “Yep.”

“And he’s here. Captain America is _here_. In Beacon Hills.”

“Great observation skills, Greenberg,” Stiles replies.

Greenberg shoves a hand in Steve’s direction. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. Uh, Captain, I mean.”

Steve shakes his head, a polite smile on his face. The booming volume of Greenberg’s voice has alerted some of the other customers and within minutes, there’s several people flocking around the booth, eager to see Captain America himself, looking more than a little shocked to see that it’s true, Stiles Stilinski actually _is_ dating a national icon. Heather is among them and it’s a little insulting that his childhood friend and the girl he literally lost his virginity to barely acknowledges him, instead completely enraptured by Steve.

Steve is polite, offering warm smiles and shaking hands, accepting people’s thanks with a humble quality that would seem saccharine and false on anyone else but him. Normally, Stiles tends to be amused when they get recognized while out in the city, but for some reason, it grates on him a little right now.

Eventually, Steve manages to disentangle himself and shoo the crowd away in a way that’s both polite and kind, not causing the slightest bit of offense, and it’s really impressive how he manages that. Stiles has witnessed Tony do it, especially with press, but he’s also seen Tony lose his patience, tapping into that easy, somehow charming abrasiveness that gets people to back off. Steve never seems to lose his patience, at least not visibly, when it comes to people approaching him.

Stiles insists on paying for lunch and he’s relieved when they leave the diner, even though they instantly get drenched with rain. Steve gives his hand a little squeeze.

“Should have brought the disguises, huh?” he says with a small smile.

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t want to disguise myself here. It’d feel wrong.”

Steve presses a kiss to his jaw, keeping it chaste since they’re both fully aware that any one of the people inside the diner could have their phones out, ready to take a snap to sell to the press or post online. Then he pulls back, looking up at the dreary grey sky.

“I don’t think the rain is gonna let up anytime soon,” he says. “Any plans?”

Stiles immediately decides the theater is out. Steve loves the movies, even if the whole experience is a little different than back in his day. One of Stiles’s favorite dates so far is the time he took Steve to an old fashioned themed theater, watching the smile on his face even as he corrected some of the details and décor. The highlight had been the fact that the movie playing was an old, black and white Captain America flick, and Steve had laughed so hard he’d choked on popcorn. But the theater in Beacon Hills isn’t great and he knows they’re not playing anything either of them would be interested in watching.

He briefly considers the ice rink, but vetoes that before he even opens his mouth. Steve is okay with winter, can bundle up to ward off the cold weather, but Stiles isn’t going to take him to skate around on ice. 

There’s the bowling alley. Steve is brilliant at bowling, although they’d had to pay for damages that one time after he forgot his own strength a little and splintered several of the pins by throwing the ball too hard. Or they could go to the arcade. Steve, adorably, fucking _loves_ retro Pinball. 

But, suddenly, he knows exactly where he wants to take Steve.

“Come on,” he murmurs, heading back to the jeep. “We won’t be getting out of the rain, though.”

Steve gives him a curious look but trusts him just as easily as he always does. The traffic has increased a little since school has let out and it’s raining, so more people are relying on the dry warmth of their cars. They creep forward, taking forever to reach one of the side roads, but from there the drive is easy. 

Stiles parks outside the cemetery but doesn’t immediately climb out. Steve looks out of the windshield, watches rain drum down on the graves lining the cemetery like soldiers and understanding crosses his face.

When Stiles finally steps out, Steve joins him, taking his hand as they head into the cemetery. He sticks to the path, walking past old, chipped gravestones that stick out of the ground like crumbling teeth, until he reaches the right row, towards the back of the cemetery. 

The stone he stops in front of stands a few feet away from a tree that, in the spring, comes to life with pink blossom. It’s smooth, simple and elegant, with his mom’s favorite flowers – sunflowers – carved delicately into the marble, edging around the words. The grass is neatly maintained and there’s a bouquet of white and pink carnations tucked against the headstone, soggy from the rain; the same flowers his dad leaves at the grave twice a week. 

Stiles makes sure to visit every time he’s back in town. Sometimes, he chats to her, like he did when he was a kid, just catching her up on his life, on how Scott is doing, what his dad’s been up to. He’s never really been religious, never exactly believed in any kind of an afterlife, but it’s comforting to think that she’s watching over him, listening when he talks to her. Sometimes he just sits by the grave, finding a strange comfort in it, like his mom is right next to him, a warm hand on his shoulder, her caramel hair tickling his skin as she wraps him in the kind of hug only a mom can give, the type that makes even the worst days feel like the best.

“I wish you could’ve met her,” Stiles murmurs. “She would’ve adored you. But this is the closest I can manage.”

Steve curls an arm around Stiles, tugging him into a gentle hug. He presses a soft kiss to Stiles’s forehead.

“She seemed like a wonderful person,” he says quietly. “She clearly loved you very much.”

“She did. She was always full of love, for everyone. My dad used to tease her by calling her a hippy and she’d always laugh.”

Steve rubs his back gently. They stand there for a while in peaceful silence, rain tapping against their skin, until a sharp burst of wind whips around them, making Stiles’s skin feel like ice. He pulls back, realizing that he’d been crying a little bit, but not in a bad way. It feels good – right – to bring Steve here, to his mom’s grave, to introduce them in the only way he can.

He wipes away the tears and murmurs a soft ‘goodbye’ to the grave. Steve reaches out, hand settling briefly, carefully on top of the headstone, and the gesture fills Stiles with an aching tenderness. He hugs Steve again before they head back to the jeep, hands clutched together, uncaring of their damp clothes and cold skin.

***

The rain doesn’t let up, so they end up watching a movie after all.

Stiles’s dad falls asleep, the way he always does when he has to take his pain relief. Stiles tucks a blanket over him carefully and makes sure the heating is on and won’t shut off during the night; the cold makes his scars ache.

It’s drizzling a little the next day, but the clouds break occasionally, spears of winter sunlight slashing through. It makes the damp grass glimmer slightly, bright enough to almost dazzle.

Stiles and Steve work on the broken fence together. It takes longer than it probably should, because Stiles spends way too long watching Steve’s muscles flex as he works, drinking in the sight of him hammering nails into panels of wood. There’s something ridiculously attractive about it. 

The three of them go out for a late lunch with Melissa before John drops them off at the airport. Stiles hugs his dad, grateful that Steve gives them a few minutes of privacy as they say goodbye. He knows his dad worries, just as much as his dad knows that Stiles worries about _him_ , and even though neither of them are particularly great at putting emotions into words when it comes to each other, they express themselves with a tight hug and a clap on the shoulder.

Once they’re on the plane, Stiles briefly considers trying to sway Steve to the idea of joining the Mile High club but decides against it when he realizes how tired he feels. Instead, he shifts slightly in his seat so he can rest against Steve’s side, leeching warmth from his body as he falls asleep.

Steve wakes him up just before they land and he feels a little more refreshed, until they step out of the airport. New York is a hell of a lot colder than Beacon Hills and he wishes he’d thought to wrap up in something warmer than his leather jacket. Steve wraps an arm around him, but pauses, and Stiles glances up at the woman leaning against a car a few feet away from them.

Allison grins. “Hey, stranger.”

Stiles snorts. “I’ve been gone less than three days.”

“And I missed you horribly,” she replies lightly. “So be nice to your chauffeur.”

“Chauffeur to _where_ exactly?” he asks, suspicious.

“Base. Coulson wants you in on a mission.”

Maybe, in a few years, he might get annoyed at the concept of getting grabbed for a mission the second he steps out of the airport, but right now, he just feels an excited sort of determination.

“Don’t worry,” Allison adds with a smile at Steve. “I’ll drop you off on the way.”

Steve doesn’t look irritated either, just gives Allison a friendly smile in greeting. His gaze is fond when he glances at Stiles, catching the look on his face, seeing how pleased he is to be needed on another SHIELD operation.

Stiles climbs into the passenger seat and Steve squeezes into the back. Allison has the heaters on full blast and Stiles holds chilled fingers in front of the air flow, skin itching slightly as he rapidly warms up. 

“How long will you be?” Steve asks.

Stiles and Allison share a grin and chorus, “Classified.”

The look on Steve’s face is worth the petty revenge. Stiles knows that if Steve asked, Coulson would probably tell him the mission details. Steve technically doesn’t work directly for SHIELD anymore, but his clearance level is still a hell of a lot higher than most of even the top level agents, and, more importantly, Coulson considers Steve a friend. 

City traffic is always a jolt after the relatively sedate roads in Beacon Hills. It seems to take forever to reach the tower. Steve leans over to kiss Stiles, slow and soft, tapping the metal of his dog tags through Stiles’s shirt.

“Be safe,” he murmurs.

Stiles smiles. “You too. I love you.”

“I love you.” Steve kisses him again before grabbing their bags and climbing out, giving a little wave as Allison pulls back into the traffic.

“You two are sickly sweet,” she informs him. “Really. My teeth actually ache.”

“Uh huh. And how are you and your scary Russian girlfriend and equally scary, nonagenarian boyfriend doing?”

“They’re not…I mean we’re not…” Allison sighs, shrugging slightly. “We’re just trying things out. We’re not in a relationship yet or anything, just dating, seeing how things go. Nothing serious.”

Stiles grins. “She says, with a love bite the size of Texas on her neck.”

Her eyes widen as she rubs at her neck. “I put concealer on!”

“You need more,” Stiles replies. “So, who mauled you?”

“Like _you_ can talk,” she mutters before adding, “Natasha. Bucky and I haven’t done anything more than kiss.”

“Is he okay with that?”

“I mean, he _wants_ to, and so do I, and Natasha definitely does. But it’s different. Natasha and I had a casual hook up, so now having sex isn’t too much of a big deal while we feel out whether we can make a relationship work. But Bucky and I are still...testing things out, you know? Taking it slow while we figure out a potential triad relationship. He and Natasha are sleeping together, though, and we’re not _excluding_ him. I wouldn’t do that. We talked about it and for now, he’s more than happy to watch Natasha and I.”

“Oh my god.”

“Too much?” she asks, smiling slightly.

“Way too much. I have to spar with them, Allison.”

She laughs, dark eyes sparkling slightly. She looks happy, really, truly so, expression warm and open, and Stiles is glad to see it. 

“Changing the subject before you definitely give me too much information,” he says. “Any details on this mission?”

“Not much, except that I hope you’ve not had enough of planes for one day.”

“Ooh, are we leaving the country?” he asks hopefully.

Getting to see different countries has always been on his bucket list and working for SHIELD is an excellent way of doing it. Sure, there’s more danger and espionage involved than there is for most tourists, but he likes it.

“No idea,” she replies. “But apparently, Joanna, Jones, Lowell and Crawfield will be joining us.”

“ _Crawfield_?” Stiles repeats. “He’s been cleared for active duty?”

“He’s aced everything, Stiles.”

“I know, but he’s a massive douchebag. I didn’t think he’d actually be accepted as an agent. He’s so…immature.”

“Yeah. But Coulson and the others either don’t see that or see something else that we don’t. They wouldn’t employ him if they thought he wouldn’t make a good agent.” Allison frowns slightly. “Did you know he passed the test to get into Mensa as a kid?”

Stiles blinks. “Crawfield. Mensa. Are you sure?”

“Positive. He’s got a flawless academic record, no behavioural issues at all. Quarterback on the football team, captain of the debate team in college. He graduated from Harvard.”

“Crawfield. Quincy Crawfield. About six foot, would be attractive if he wasn’t an asshole, talks like a bigoted cliché?”

“That’s the one. And you know what else is weird?”

“It gets _weirder_?” Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows. 

“He’s marched in plenty of Pride parades in the past.” 

“That…what? No. He’s been pretty open about being a bigot in that regard. I’m not just seeing things, right?”

“Nope. It threw me for one, too. You know he was a recruit at the SHIELD academy, but didn’t pass before it fell?”

Stiles nods. “This is his second opportunity. He talks about it all the time, what about it?”

“Apparently, he was a star recruit in the academy. Not just in terms of his physical capability, but his leadership qualities. He helped the other recruits. The scar on his ankle is from catching it on barbed wire when he helped another guy crawl underneath it.”

“But that’s…” Stiles shakes his head slightly. “Allison, how do you _know_ all this?”

“Well, uh…Margot and I kind of…looked at his file,” she admits. “We were talking about him and how he even got into SHIELD in the first place, so we took a peek.” 

Stiles gapes for a second, incredulous. “You realize how completely fired you would be for that?” 

“Oh, like _you_ can talk. You just wish you were there to do it with us.”

“Okay, well, true. But still.”

“We weren’t caught,” Allison reassures him. “Actually, Margot seemed worryingly experienced in the whole thing.”

“Crawfield,” Stiles says, chewing it over. “And it’s definitely the same guy?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, because that’s the kind of mistake SHIELD would make.”

“Maybe the whole thing with Hydra screwed him up a little?” He suggests, uncertain. “Like, sure, he was a cool guy before all that went down, but obviously something has him all jaded now.” 

“Maybe,” she allows, doubt clear in her tone. “I don’t know. Something just feels off to me.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He can feel it too, an itch under his skin, niggling at him. 

“Should we tell someone?”

“And say what? ‘I know we’re still new to all this, but we think your experienced agents must have missed something about Crawfield, because he’s sometimes kind of a dick’?” Stiles points out. 

“Maybe not, then,” she says, sighing. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Probably.”

She parks and they share a look, both of them not even trying to hide their doubt about the whole thing. Stiles is right, though; if they go to Coulson about it now, they’re just going to look like petty school children. Crawfield’s been a jerk, sure, but if he’s excelled enough to be signed on as an actual agent, it can only be because he’s actually capable.

Still.

“We should keep an eye on it,” he suggests.

Allison’s expression softens with relief as she nods.

***

Stiles has stayed in a couple of hotels in his life, spent nights in a few motels, but he’s never actually stepped foot inside the kind of place where a room costs upwards of a thousand dollars a night.

It’s fancy as hell, with a huge reception complete with marble accents, a crystal chandelier, and staff decked out in the kind of stuffy, pretentious uniform you’d expect to be paid a great deal to wear simply for the pleasure of the wealthy elite.

They have a room on the fifty seventh floor. The elevator they step in to is all glass, tucked into a corner of the building so as they glide upwards, Stiles is surrounded on three sides by the view of the city as they lift higher and higher towards the clouds. Dusk is creeping across the sky, painting it burnt orange and gold and turning the ocean below into a swath of smooth, dark glass reflecting the last rays of the sun. They rise even higher than the other buildings, giving them an unobstructed view for what feels like miles.

Stiles is wearing a crisp grey suit, expensive glasses with thin gold frames, and is sporting a wig that looks so incredibly real it’s actually unnerving, dark reddish-black and annoyingly itchy, short and neat but covering his own hair. He’s got contacts in his eyes, turning usual amber brown to a greyish hazel, and he looks so different that his own reflection is kind of creepy to look at.

Since Allison isn’t openly dating a superhero and, therefore, hasn’t had her face splashed across magazines and social media, her disguise is a little less intense. She’s styled her usually curly hair until it’s razor straight and pinned back into a chignon, her make up is subtle but somehow adds a few years to her face, and she’s wearing an expensive blouse, a knee length linen skirt, and conservative heels, dainty pearl earrings decorating her ears. It’s so different from her usual style that even though it’s still _her_ , it still feels like looking at a complete stranger.

The way she holds herself is different, too. Gone is the readiness of a trained fighter, the watchful gaze of someone who is used to observing; instead, she has the perfect posture and elegant lines of a debutante heiress, her brown eyes soft, expression haughty but unimposing. 

Stiles has adjusted his own posture and sense of presence to match his cover. Unlike Allison, he slouches slightly, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other resting on the small of her back in a possessive display of affection, one finger sliding a little lower than is appropriate for public. He looks every bit the arrogant, careless millionaire, heedless of his fiancée’s propriety because he does what he wants and pays off anyone who gives a damn.

He’s maybe channelling a little bit of Tony, mimicking his posture, his lazy smiles and effortless charm and ability to appear to fill up a whole room with his personality. 

“Now, darling,” Allison says, her tone softer and a little higher in pitch than it usually is, caressed by a Southern accent that’s slightly less rounded, showing off flawless elocution due to a good education. “Do you promise me you won’t be working tomorrow? The Hampdens have made brunch reservations for ten thirty.” 

“Uh huh,” he replies, his own Manhattan accent clipped and impatient. “I already said I wouldn’t.”

She taps her shoe slightly but doesn’t reply, though the irritation on her face is obvious. Stiles turns his attention to his phone, appearing like his whole focus is on whatever it is he’s looking at, when in reality, he’s tuned into Allison next to him and the porter stood in front of them. He’s carefully ignoring the mini argument behind him and it’s obvious he’s already checked out, not interested in yet another rich couple having a domestic in the elevator.

They keep the charade going until they reach the room. Allison breezes inside it ahead of them, tin chipped up slightly, her performance of giving the silent treatment so perfect Stiles almost wants to laugh, but he just raises an eyebrow at her back, fixing a smirk on his face.

“She’ll get over it,” he says to the porter, neatly sliding a large tip into his palm. “Woman likes the sound of her own damn voice too much to keep it up for long.”

The porter gives a slightly uncomfortable chuckle at the arrogant sleaziness and moves a little too quickly as he leaves the room, clearly eager to get away from the argument he’s expecting to blow up once the door is shut. For a moment, Stiles and Allison stand in silence, listening to make sure the porter really has disappeared back down the hallway, before they both spring into action.

A thorough sweep of the room exposes no bugs or cameras. There shouldn’t be any, since no one should know that SHIELD agents are even in the country, but it’s always good to check in case, somehow, they’ve been made. 

Once they’re sure they can drop the charade and speak freely, Allison pinches Stiles lightly on the arm.

“If I didn’t know you were faking, I would kick your ass,” she says. “‘Woman likes the sound of her own damn voice’. I can’t believe you actually said that.”

“Believe me, I felt slimy just saying it. But our covers are intact. That poor porter will be telling all of his buddies about the asshole and his fiancée in room 408.”

She stretches, tugging her hair free from its chignon, and just like that, in half a second she’s shaken off her cover, the rich heiress slipping back into Allison Argent between one blink and the next. It’s impressive.

Stiles tugs a comms unit out of his pocket, turning it on before he tucks it into his ear. He waits for Agent Morse to say, “Line secure” before he speaks.

“We’re in, room is secure.” 

“Good work, Agent Stilinski. May, Jones and Crawfield are in the building foyer. So far, no sign of our guy.”

Unlike them, Agent May, Margot and Crawfield will have to maintain their covers. Stiles hadn’t seen them as they’d walked through the reception, which is good; it means they’re doing their job. If Stiles hadn’t been able to pick them out of a crowd, no one else will, either. They’ve got the role of keeping an eye out for the target’s arrival at the building.

Joanna and Lowell are posing as another couple, but they’d checked in hours ago and their room is on the floor below. Morse is running the operation, situated in the control room on the jet, watching the cameras, ready to provide back up if needed.

The guy they’re after is Adrian Klapow, a former scientist who had been obsessed with creating a perfect replica of the super soldier serum. Reading his file had made Stiles feel cold and disgusted; an investigation into his work turned up a horrifying amount of human experimentation with pretty barbaric results. He’d disappeared before the arrest could be made, dropped completely off grid, but his work has been circulating in various circles recently, and a friend and ally of Klapow’s had alerted SHIELD to a planned deal, giving them the intel in return for a plea deal for aiding a murderer. Klapow’s finally showing his face in order to sell all of his research and whatever serum he has left. 

They don’t know who his buyer is, but according to Klapow’s buddy, as well as monetary payment, he’s been offered secure protection for the rest of his life. 

Their job is to find out which room the deal is going down in and bust it, arresting both Klapow and his buyer.

It should be pretty simple, but they don’t know who in the hotel is involved. Any one of the other guests or even the staff could be security for either Klapow or his buyer, which makes the whole thing a little more difficult. If they get made before Klapow arrives, then they’ll lose their chance to stop the sale and bring him in. 

“According to our turncoat, Klapow’s due at the hotel at twenty one hundred hours,” Bobbi says over the comms. “Sit tight, agents. May will alert you when he arrives.”

Stiles loosens his tie and tugs the suit jacket off, tossing it over the back of the couch. He doesn’t really feel comfortable in stuffy suits, even sleek, expensive ones. 

The hotel room is large and ornate, even more modern and flashy than the communal floor in the Avengers tower. Stiles opens the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water, and takes a long drink.

One wall is glass with a spectacular view of the city and the ocean. The last tendrils of dusk have crept out of the sky, leaving it dark, clouds obscuring the stars and moon. Stiles can’t make out where the sky ends and the ocean begins; it’s just one large, unnerving swath of darkness. 

Little squares of yellow dot the city, mapping out the buildings with lit up rooms, but it seems surprisingly quiet. This high up, Stiles feels isolated from the rest of the world.   
Allison toes off her heels, leaving them by the couch, and her stockinged feet make hardly any noise on the thick carpet as she gets a bottle of water for herself. Stiles sits down on the armchair and gazes at the door, tapping the side of his glasses. Instantly, he’s offered vision into the corridor on the other side of the wall, heat sensors marking out people as they come and go. 

Allison sits on the couch, legs curled underneath her, and slips a tablet out of her purse. She brings up blueprints of the hotel, once again going over it, mapping out the best strategic points and where the deal is most likely to go down, based on accessibility, cover and privacy. Then she goes over the list of guests in the hotel, rattles off the staff rota, reminding Stiles of every bit of intel they have.

After what seems like forever, but is only really a couple of hours, in which Stiles has been monitoring the security feeds Bobbi linked to his glasses and Allison’s been preparing for the mission, May’s voice sounds in his ear, carefully quiet.

“We’ve got incoming,” she warns.

“How many?” Bobbi asks, already flicking to the security feed of the building foyer.

Stiles blinks. “Holy shit.” He counts three groups, clusters of them, all dressed in black tac gear and bullet proof vests. All armed. 

The reception erupts into chaos, but the display of weapons puts a swift stop to people trying to run. Soon, everyone in the reception are on their bellies, hands lifted in surrender. Fifteen men stay there, guns drawn, one of them shouting orders; the others head over to the elevator.

“They’re shutting the whole building down,” Bobbi says. “May, can you get to the stairs?”

“Already blocked,” May replies, very quietly. “Six, all heavily armed, and more have gone into the stairwell itself. They’re closing down each floor.”

Allison’s watching the security footage on her tablet, expression tight and determined. There’s hundreds of innocent civilians in the building, which means they have to be incredibly careful. They can’t let anyone get hurt in the crossfire.

May, Jones and Crawfield are stuck on the ground floor. But it means they can take down the guys in control of the reception if needs be. 

Stiles flicks through the security feed, watching as men spill out of the elevator, at least six to each floor. The rest go to the top floor, fifteen of them packed into the hallway, keeping guard of one of the rooms. The elevator descends again and stays on the ground floor, closely guarded.

“They’ve locked down the elevator,” Bobbi confirms.

“Any sign of Klapow?” Stiles asks.

“Not yet. These aren’t his boys. They’re protecting the buyer. My guess is they’re already situated in that room on the top floor.” 

Stiles eyes the sheer volume of armed security. Whoever the buyer is, they’ve got the money, connections and influence to make sure they’re more protected than the goddamn Queen of England. They’d anticipated a scenario similar to this, but they hadn’t expected so many guards. There isn’t enough of them to take that many armed guards down, especially while trying to protect civilians, and they haven’t got the time to call in back up.

Stiles waits, tense, as Bobbi comes to a decision.

“Proceed with the mission,” she finally says. “Agent Stilinski, you know what to do.”

Allison pauses. “And me?” 

“Change of plan. Think you can handle the elevator shaft? If you can get to the top floor, you can take the guys in the hallway out with the element of surprise. That way, if Stiles needs back up, he won’t have to fight all of them, too.”

“Understood,” Allison confirms. 

Stiles gets to his feet, tugging the wig off. It’s a relief to finally get the damn thing off and he ruffles his hair slightly where it had been smoothed down. The glasses come off, he removes the contacts, and starts stripping. They haven’t got time for modesty and he knows Allison won’t care about nudity – he’s seen her in bikinis, after all, which isn’t much different to underwear – but he still turns his back to be polite as she removes her own clothing.

He dresses in a more lightweight version of his normal suit. It has to be sleeker for a reason - he can’t be weighed down - so it means forfeiting some of the Kevlar and weapons. He zips up the jacket, tucks his ICER securely in his thigh holster, and pins a couple of dendrotoxin grenades to his belt. A knife goes in his boot. 

When he turns, Allison is in her own uniform, her hair pinned back securely. She pulls on a pair of fingerless gloves. Stiles grabs his own set of gloves; his aren’t fingerless and are a little bulkier due to the technology in them. 

He knows the basics of how they work and Fitz’s inventions are always sound, but he still feels a thrill of nerves at the knowledge that he’s about to literally trust his life to a pair of gloves.

Stiles moves to the narrow window in the hallway. It isn’t designed to open for safety reasons, but another little nifty gadget – this time a Stark creation – helps Stiles to quietly shift the glass. Immediately, wind blasts at him, and he takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Hey, Morse?” he says into the comms. “If I die, tell Fitz I’m gonna haunt his skinny Scottish ass.”

“I will,” she replies, a note of amusement in her voice. “But you’ll be fine. Just remember not to sweat.”

“Wait, what? I’m about to try and climb the outside of a building with only a pair of gloves to stop me from becoming a smear on the ground, how am I meant to _not sweat_?”

“Stiles -,” she starts, but then pauses. “Kaplow just arrived. He’s entering the building. You need to move, Stilinski.”

He takes another deep breath, peering out of the window. It’s so dark that he can’t even see the ground and he doesn’t even know if that helps the situation or not. But Morse is right. He hasn’t got time to stall or freak out. 

Kaplow will take the elevator to the top floor and then it will be locked down again. Allison won’t be able to get into the shaft without alerting the guards on their floor, which means she’ll have to move quickly to take them out before they can give a warning to the rest of the security detail. If they do, Allison will lose the element of surprise. Stiles needs to be in place and prepared in case that happens.

He switches on the gloves and leans out of the window, carefully securing one hand to the wall. Instantly, it locks in place, stabilizing him as he climbs the rest of the way out of the window.

It’s night and his uniform is dark enough that he won’t be seen, clinging to the outside of a building, fifty seven floors up. 

The wall is frustratingly smooth, but his boots have traction, and the windows have panels that offer a sort of foothold to help him climb. The gloves keep his hands secure to the wall, taking his weight as he climbs, but he’s fully aware that if they were to fail or run out of power, he’d fall to a pretty grisly death.

At this height, the wind batters at him, stealing his breath. It’s fucking _cold_ , his face quickly going numb, and he has to squint slightly when his eyes water from each sharp gust of wind. It’s a slow process, but he knows he can’t rush; if he does, he’ll only end up putting himself in more danger.

“I really, really hate heights,” he manages, trying to ignore how his knees feel like jelly. He focuses instead on his progress, refusing to look down into the darkness that’s nipping at his heels, desperate to swallow him whole. 

“You’re doing great, Stiles,” Bobbi reassures him. “Five more floors to go.”

“Five?” he repeats. “Fuck. Kaplow?”

“He’s entered the room, but we’ve got time. Keep calm. _Don’t sweat_.”

“Have you ever tried being miles up in the air with no safety net?” he snips back. 

“Actually, yes,” she replies. “I’ll tell you the story sometime, over some shots once you’re back on solid ground. Four more floors to -.”

She cuts off so abruptly that Stiles’s chest goes tight with worry.

“Agent Morse?” 

“Coulson just contacted me. He has new intel.”

“ _Now_?”

“Apparently, it’s urgent,” she says. “Captain Rogers has information. Heads up, guys, we’ve got Cap incoming on the comms.”

“Wait, _what_?” This is the worst possible time to hear Steve’s voice.

A second later, Steve is in his ear. “Natasha was approached by a member of Viper.” It’s his Captain America voice, firm and professional, but Stiles knows him well enough to hear the thread of tension in his tone. “He wanted to warn us. He’s aware of the Kaplow deal. The buyers are involved with Viper.”

“Steve,” Stiles says carefully. “This maybe isn’t the best time. If it’s Viper, we’ll just take them in.”

“Agent Stilinski,” Steve replies. “Stiles. You need to -.”

“ _Steve_ -.”

“Withdraw, this is likely a -.”

“Steve. I’m currently dangling sixty one floors above the ground without a parachute or safety net. _Really not the best time_.”

A pause, then, “You’re _what_?”

“I’m trying to scale a building with walls smoother than one of Tony’s pick-up lines,” Stiles says. “It’s cold, it’s windy, and I’d really like to avoid turning into jam on the ground, and your voice is kind of distracting, okay?”

To his surprise, Steve actually mutters a curse over the comms. He hears Bobbi make a startled sound and even though he knows Steve, knows that he does swear, he hadn’t expected Steve to actually cuss over the comms, in front of agents he doesn’t know, and Stiles jerks back in surprise before he can help it.

One of the gloves loses its lock, hand dropping back, and he falls slightly with a shout, dangling by one hand, legs flailing in the air.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Steve barks. 

“Agent Stilinski,” Bobbi demands. “Status, agent.”

“I’m fine,” he manages, gasping slightly as his heart starts to calm from its sudden frenzied pounding. He presses his hand back to the wall. “Fuck, okay. I just slipped a little, but I’m fine.”

“You slipped a little,” Steve repeats tightly. 

“Captain Rogers, if you think we need to withdraw, can you tell us why within the next thirty seconds?” Bobbi asks, her own voice thick with stress. “I have agents at risk here.”

“It’s a trap,” Steve says. “The guy who approached us, he was involved in setting it up, but he came to us when he discovered that innocent people would be in danger. The guards in the building, they’re _all_ enhanced. They’ve injected themselves with the same stuff the Boyce twins were on. They know SHIELD will try and stop the deal and they’re prepared for it.” 

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles mutters. “Allison?”

“I’m already in the elevator shaft,” she says, grunting slightly in effort as she climbs. “The ones on our floor went down with a dendrotoxin grenade.”

“But it won’t last long,” he reminds her. “We haven’t got time. You’re a sitting duck in there, Allison.”

“Then _hurry up_ ,” she replies. 

Gritting his teeth, he continues to climb, his nerves forgotten in a surge of adrenaline and determination. Finally, he reaches the right floor.

“The window to the right room is twelve feet to your left,” Bobbi tells him. “We don’t know how many men are in there.”

“I’ve got the grenades,” Stiles replies. “It won’t keep them down long. We can’t bring them in. But I can grab Kaplow’s serum and research, if you can provide extraction.”

“Lowell and Bradley are still on their floor. Get the serum, get to their room, and we’ll extract you.”

“What about the civilians?” Allison asks. “If they’re jacked up on that serum, they might hurt innocent people.”

“May and the others can contain it on the ground floor,” Bobbi replies. “All the guests on the other floors are secure in their rooms. This is the best we can do.”

Stiles inches to the left, getting closer to the right window. When he’s a couple of feet away, he slips a small device, barely bigger than his thumbnail, out of his pocket. With a quick fling, it latches onto the window, clear and unobtrusive. 

A second later, audio filters over the comms.

“I want to make sure you can hold up to your end of the deal first.” It’s Kaplow’s voice, slightly nervous, wavering slightly as he tries to be firm. “Do you know how much this serum is worth? Bart Boyce paid me thousands to get the formula to make his own.”

Son of a bitch. Kaplow had helped the Boyce twins to create their serum, and they’d been members of Viper. Now he’s selling the research to another buyer associated with Viper.  
Stiles really doesn’t like this. Viper is clearly smart, reaching far beyond the idiots who’d attacked him on the train. The vocal, visible ones are just the surface; there’s more going on, underground enough to avoid notice, getting involved in serious stuff. Their initial assessment is beyond wrong.

Viper are a threat. A pretty fucking concerning one.

“I’m a man of honor,” comes a second voice. “We don’t have time to chat, Doctor. SHIELD are already in the building.”

“Holy shit,” Bobbi’s voice is soft, startled. 

“Morse?” Stiles asks.

“That’s Ward.” Anger bleeds into her voice. “Fuck, that’s _Ward_.”

Stiles blinks. “Grant Ward?”

He’d been told all about Grant Ward and he feels that knot of worry pull tighter in his chest. He really doesn’t want to go up against someone like Ward, especially without any back up close by. 

“Ward’s Hydra, right?” Allison cuts in. “What’s he doing with Viper?”

“I don’t know, but it’s safe to say nothing good. Stiles, wait for my signal before moving.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll just…hang out here, no worries.”

He doesn’t know if Steve is still on the comms, but he hopes not. He can’t let himself be distracted in a situation as serious as this. 

He listens to Ward and Kaplow keep talking, until they get distracted when the latter finally shows his research, and that’s when Bobbi tells him to move.

Stiles locks himself to the wall with one glove, tugging his ICER out with his free hand. It’s not the most stable position to aim, but three rapid shots shatter the glass to the window. He holsters the gun and grabs one of the dendrotoxin grenades, flinging it neatly through the ruined window. 

He’s out of the way enough for the quiet blast not to affect him. He counts down from three before swinging towards the window, waiting until the right second to disengage his glove. He free falls for a second but manages to catch the edge of the window frame, heart pounding in his throat as he hauls himself up, glass crunching under his boots.

The wind batters at his back. Four guards are on the floor, knocked out cold by the grenade, but if they’re jacked up on the shitty replica serum, they won’t be down for long.

Ward’s _good_ ; he’d dragged Klapow and one of the guards behind the bar, keeping them safe from the blast. 

Ward surges to his feet, gun in his hands, and Stiles throws himself to the right, rolling as he ducks behind the cover of the couch. A bullet slams into the coffee table, narrowly avoiding where Stiles had been just a second before.

He’s so certain that the door is about to burst open, the guards crammed into the corridor outside spilling in, and he won’t have a fucking chance, but it doesn’t happen. For a second, there’s just silence as he waits, body taut, fully aware that Ward is ready to make a move the second he does.

“I’ve taken care of the guys outside the room,” Allison says, and Stiles could fucking _kiss_ her.

The door does slam open then and Allison fires off a shot with her ICER less than a second later. Klapow hits the floor, unconscious, the suitcase in his hand falling open on the carpet. Stiles peers around the couch, sees Ward twist towards Allison, and grabs the knife from his boot, letting it fly.

It knocks the gun out of his hand, nicking the skin, but Ward had been moving too fast for Stiles to do as much damage as he’d like to have done. Allison fires off another shot but Ward uses a silver tray as a shield, then pushes forward, on her in the next instant. Her gun hits the floor as they go toe to toe.

Stiles stands, ICER in his hands, ready to aim, but he’d lost track of the one guard still conscious. A hand grips his wrist, squeezing hard enough to make him shout out, the gun falling from his grip. 

Stiles slams his head forward, the blow connecting with the guard’s nose, and blood immediately bursts out of it, splattering across Stiles’s cheek. The grip on his arm loosens before it can start to break bone and Stiles pushes the asshole back with a hard kick.

He’s the same height as Stiles, muscular but not beefy, and there’s that rage in his eyes but it doesn’t burn as hot or all-consuming as it had in the twins. The serum in these guys is obviously more stabilized and Stiles is willing to bet that if they’re working for Grant Ward, then they’re all trained in combat.

Stiles moves to the side, avoiding a blow to his chest, and twists into a jumping back kick that connects with the guy’s torso, hard enough to break ribs on a normal person. He doesn’t know if it’s worked on someone enhanced and he doesn’t wait to find out, just pushes forward while he has the advantage, jumping onto and then propelling himself off the coffee table so he can slam his knee into the guy’s jaw. 

He hits the ground but rolls, facing Stiles again as he gets back to his feet. He’s scooped up some shards of glass in his hand and Stiles ducks quickly when he flings them. They hit the couch instead.

“Hey,” Stiles manages, annoyed. “That’s -,” he rocks back, away from a kick, “ _my_ fucking,” he deflects a punch, “move.”

The man charges him, arms locking around Stiles’s waist in a tackle, and they hit the couch. Glass embeds in Stiles’s uniform but the thin layer of Kevlar does its job, protecting the skin of his back from getting cut. The couch overturns, tumbling them back onto the floor, and Stiles finds himself pinned, an iron bar of an arm across his chest, the other pulling his arm taut. The fucker tugs it under his bent knee, seconds away from breaking the bone. 

Stiles silently thanks Natasha and Clint for his flexibility training as he snaps a leg up from his position on the floor, kicking the asshole right in the mouth. Fresh blood bursts from his mouth and fury burns hotter in his eyes as he spits a tooth out onto the floor.

“Oh, that’s fucking gross,” Stiles mutters.

Hands reach for him, one managing to get around his throat, and Stiles knows that there’s enough unnatural strength in this guy to squeeze him like a goddamn orange. He reaches out, clawing at the carpet until he picks up the tooth, which is slimy and really fucking disgusting, but Bucky’s voice is ringing in his head as he reaches up and shoves it back into the guy’s mouth.

The move takes him by surprise and Stiles lands a strike with his palm that snaps the man’s jaw shut and forces him to swallow. Instantly, he chokes on the tooth, reeling back, and Stiles flips to his feet.

His opponent stands, reaches into his mouth and pulls the tooth out of his throat. He throws it at Stiles and they both watch as it bounces harmlessly off his uniform.

“What the fuck?” Stiles says.

The serum has mitigated the uncontrollable anger, but it’s also limited the strength, too. The guard is stronger than Stiles, but not as strong as Steve or Bucky. Stiles watches as he pulls a knife from his belt. It’s big, with a wicked curve and a sharp edge, the steel gleaming as it catches the light.

Stiles groans. “What kind of asshole brings a knife to a fist fight?” 

The guard grins at Stiles, showing bloody teeth, flipping the knife in his hand to adjust his grip on the handle. Stiles rocks back to avoid the first slash with it, twisting to the side and out of the way of the second. He ducks a third, but has to deflect another strike with his arm, gritting his teeth as the blade scores a hot, painful line across the skin of his forearm, slicing through the material of his uniform.

He flips the knife again, this time going for a stabbing motion, aimed at Stiles’s gut; Stiles grabs his hand and twists, pushing up with enough force that the grip on the knife goes lax, the blade dropping. Stiles catches the handle with his free hand before the knife can fall to the floor, swinging it in an arc towards the asshole’s face.

He deflects, the tough leather of his own jacket managing to keep the blade from tearing through his skin, and it’s a fast flurry of blows after that. He avoids or deflects each swipe of the knife, lands a solid blow to Stiles’s ribs that hurts like fuck, but Stiles has sparred with Bucky and he hits like a goddamn freight train, so he grits his teeth and takes the pain as he pushes forward, forcing the guy towards the wall.

A sudden knee to his gut causes Stiles’s breath to seize and the guard takes advantage of the second of distraction; he grabs Stiles’s wrist and turns, slamming him into the wall. He twists Stiles’s arm until the blade is pointed towards his own chest and he has to grab at the handle with his second hand to stop it from sinking in.

He brings his knee up into the guy’s groin, forcing him to back up enough for Stiles to kick his knee. He hears it crack as he spins, reversing their positions until the guard is against the wall and Stiles has flipped the blade back towards him, angled for his throat.

The guard stops it with one hand, strong enough to hold it off, and Stiles only has a split second to make his move. He slams the base of the handle with his other hand, pushing it forward until the blade sinks into the guard’s throat.

Blood spills out from the wound and the guy’s eyes go wide. Stiles lets go and steps back, watching as the guard scrabbles at his throat, choking on his own blood. He slumps to the floor and Stiles steps back, away from the steadily growing pool of red, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

“Hail fucking Hydra, asshole,” he mutters.

Behind him, he can hear Allison still holding Ward off and feels a brief flash of pride. He’s heard all about Ward, knows just how good he is, but Allison is holding her own against him. He turns, throwing himself towards the fight to help.

Allison ducks to avoid a punch and jumps onto Ward, flipping fast around his body until she has her legs hooked over his shoulders. She brings her elbow down onto his head but he gets a hold of her thighs, flinging her over his head and to the floor. 

She rolls across the carpet and panic seizes in Stiles’s chest as her legs start to tumble over the edge of the broken window. Her eyes go wide, mouth opening in a silent shout, one hand reaching out as the other scrabbles at the carpet.

He doesn’t think about moving, he just _does_ , grabbing hold of her outstretched hand. He hauls her back in, bracing his foot against the window frame as he pulls until she’s back in the room. She rolls away from the broken glass, eyes still wide and full of panic. 

Stiles turns. Ward is right behind him, eyes lit up with the exhilaration of a fight, and the smile he gives is shark like. His leg snaps out in a forceful kick.

His boot slams into Stiles’s chest with enough power to throw him back and break the grip he has on the window frame, shards of glass scoring his palms as his arms fly out at his sides.

And then he’s falling.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: description of injuries, mention of stitches, nightmares.

Wind whips around him.

He can hear it roaring in his ears, lashing at his body as he twists and turns in thin air, body somersaulting as he free falls. 

Panic thunders through him, steals the air from his lungs. All he can do is fall, eyes squeezed shut, the darkness swallowing him. He reaches out blindly, grasping, desperate to find something, _anything_ that he can latch on to in order to stop his fall. There’s a quiet, electronic whine as the glove sparks to life and then –

He slams to a stop, shoulder jarring hard enough for him to cry out. The glove on his left hand has locked onto the wall and pain throbs through his shoulder and arm from the force of it yanking taut as he’d stopped falling. He dangles there, gasping for breath, eyes still shut tight against the wind.

For a second, he thinks he’s going to be sick.

There’s shouting in his ear and it takes a moment for the ringing to fade enough for him to focus past the fear and panic still storming behind his ribs. It’s Allison and Bobbi and –

Oh, fuck, _Steve_.

“Which floor?” he gasps out.

“Christ,” Bobbi manages. “Stiles.”

“ _Which floor_?”

There’s a second as she checks, then she says, “You’re two floors above Agents Bradley and Lowell. Can you get to them?”

“I haven’t really got much of a choice, have I?” he replies, going for joking, but his voice is weak, thready with pain. “Allison?”

“I’m here,” she answers. “Ward made a run for it. He’s in the stairwell.”

“Ground floor is secure,” May adds. “Agent Morse?”

There’s a brief pause before Bobbi says, clearly a little reluctant, “Let him go. We can’t go up against all of them. Argent, get to Lowell and Bradley. Extraction in three minutes.”

“Stiles?” Steve’s voice is quiet, careful. 

“I’m fine. Just – please don’t talk to me until I’m back on solid ground.”

Silence falls over the comms and Stiles slowly starts to move. He doesn’t think his shoulder is dislocated but it goddamn _hurts_ and he’s still not quite back with it after nearly falling to his death. But he keeps going, scaling down the building until Bobbi’s voice crackles over the comms, letting him know he’s at the right window.

It opens up thanks to another Stark gadget and Stiles lets himself drop; strong arms catch him around the waist and he tumbles into the room, landing on top of someone else. Lowell grunts slightly at the impact.

“Stiles,” Joanna says, eyes wide as she helps him up. “You good?”

He can’t bring himself to answer, just staggers to his feet. Lowell gets back up a lot more gracefully and offers a steadying hand when Stiles sags slightly.

“Agent Bradley took care of the guards on this floor,” he says. 

The door opens and all three of them jump, but it’s just Allison. She’s bleeding, hair wild and she limps more than runs across the room. She grabs Stiles into a tight hug and the wetness on her face isn’t just blood, her tears smearing into the skin of his neck.

“You asshole,” she manages. “You goddamn _asshole_.” She pulls back, wild eyed. “I’m telling Scott. And your dad. And _Steve_. I’m telling Steve.”

“Steve knows,” he replies, feeling weirdly numb. “And it’s not like I _wanted_ to nearly fall to my death. Shit happens, Allison, what do you think we signed up for when we joined SHIELD?”

He realizes belatedly how harsh his words are. Hurt flickers across Allison’s expression before she schools it.

“Don’t,” she snaps. “I just watched you get kicked out of a window, Stiles, I thought – I thought I’d just watched you _die_.”

He swallows, hugging her again. “I’m sorry.”

She trembles slightly. “Thanks for saving my life, you ass.”

He gives her a careful squeeze in response. When they pull apart, she’s gathered herself again, and the familiar sound of the quinjet’s engines reach their ears. A few feet outside the window, a rope dangles down.

Allison laughs slightly and Stiles can’t help but mirror it. He’s just been kicked out of one window and now he has to jump out of another for extraction. 

Allison goes first. Her gloves are almost burned through – she’d slid right down the elevator cables to get to this floor – but she grabs the rope easily enough and starts pulling herself up. Joanna goes second, but Lowell shakes his head when Stiles looks at him.

“Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll be right behind you. I can grab you if you lose your grip.”

Stiles nods and throws himself out of the window, grabbing hold of the rope. He starts climbing and once he’s nearly at the open hatch on the jet, hands help him in. He turns to give Lowell a hand as well and they crawl backwards so the hatch can fully close.

Bobbi’s in the cockpit. “May and the others are meeting us at the rendezvous point.”

Stiles leans back against the wall, closing his eyes. “So,” he manages. “That was Ward. What a _dick_.”

“He got away,” Bobbi says darkly. “ _Again_. And Klapow. But we know Ward is connected to Viper as well as Hydra. He’s shown his face. He’ll show it again.”

Stiles doesn’t answer, just focuses on breathing. Eventually, he murmurs, “Steve?”

A quiet, relieved exhalation answers him. “Stiles.”

“Why are you still on comms?”

“Coulson told me to stay off them, but,” there’s a pause, then, “You were in danger.”

“Are you okay?”

“Am _I_ okay?” Steve repeats, incredulous. “Damn it, Stiles.”

“I’m fine,” he assures him quickly. “I’d definitely prefer to not ever have a repeat performance of that, but I’m fine.”

“You fell. I heard you scream as you fell and there was nothing I could do.” Steve sounds like he’s been gutted, torn open and bleeding. “Four seconds. Four seconds before I heard your voice and knew you were alive.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles murmurs. “I didn’t…I wish you weren’t on comms.”

“So I’d never have known it even happened? How close I was to losing you?” Steve counters tightly. 

“Steve, this is part of the job. Granted, I’d rather it wasn’t, but it _is_. I know it scares you, but I experience the same thing every time you put on all that red, white and blue and go out to fight.”

“Uh,” Joanna interrupts cautiously. “You’re…still on comms.”

Stiles blows out a breath. “Right. We’ll talk when I get home.”

“Fine,” Steve agrees. He doesn’t sound frustrated now, just defeated, and it makes Stiles’s heart ache.

He opens his mouth to murmur an ‘I love you’, but then the line closes completely. Stiles tugs the comms unit out of his ear and leans his head back.

Lowell crouches next to him. “I was trained in field medical aid in the Forces,” he reminds Stiles quietly. “Can I?”

Stiles eyes him for a moment. He doesn’t know what to do with Lowell being…well, not a jerk. But both times they’ve been on a mission together, Lowell had left the personal stuff behind, focused on the team and making sure everyone got through it in one piece. 

He’s an asshole, but a professional one, and a good leader and agent. 

So Stiles nods, letting Lowell look him over. 

He’s not even badly hurt. His shoulder is sprained from stopping his fall and he has a few bruises, plus the cut on his arm, but he’s nowhere near as battered as he’d been after his first mission. But he feels more shaken, left empty and exhausted now the adrenaline has crashed out of his system, and, stupidly, he feels tears sting his eyes.

Lowell doesn’t comment on them, just keeps his gaze on Stiles’s arm as he numbs the area. He’s got careful, steady fingers and he makes quick work of the stitches; he only needs six and the blade hadn’t nicked too deep, so just the skin needs sewing together. He’ll have a scar, but once it heals, it probably won’t even be that visible. 

They collect Agent May, Jones and Crawfield at the extraction point. Stiles braces himself for a remark from Crawfield but being in the presence of May clearly stops him from being an asshole. 

Yet, he does place a hand on Stiles’s good shoulder, a careful display of almost comradery, and when Stiles looks up, there’s a look in his eyes that Stiles has never seen before, lacking all the bravado and nastiness that Stiles is used to.

When Crawfield takes his seat, Stiles catches Allison’s gaze. She still looks shaken, but she frowns, clearly just as confused as Stiles is.

He’s too tired to focus on it for long, though, so he forgets about Crawfield altogether and closes his eyes as the jet takes off again. He doesn’t sleep, despite how tired he is, just lets his mind spin and go over the whole operation again and again. 

They hadn’t been kidding about Ward being a grade A fuckface, but instead of the fight, or his tumble out of the window, Stiles finds his thoughts stuck on the snippet of conversation he’d heard before busting into the room.

When they land, Coulson is waiting for them in the hanger. He dismisses the others, instructing them to debrief with Agent Mackenzie and head home, but he beckons for Agents May and Morse and Stiles to follow him. They’re silent as they head to Coulson’s office. May’s expression is blank, Bobbi’s is grim, and Stiles bites his tongue to avoid breaking the quiet. 

Coulson presses a button, securing the room, making sure they have complete privacy. The suspicion that had been curdling, sour and imposing, in Stiles’s stomach the whole flight back creeps into his throat, given strength by the expression on Coulson’s face.

The director looks at him. “You’ve already figured it out, haven’t you?”

Stiles nods once, crossing his arms across his chest. “Ward said that SHIELD was already in the building,” he says quietly. “Not that they might be, or that he thought they were. It was a statement of fact. He didn’t just suspect that SHIELD would try and stop the deal. He knew for certain we were going to. He knew we were there. That’s why he was so prepared for us.”

He knows exactly what that means. There’s no way Ward could still have access to SHIELD to spy on them, which means he’d been given a tip off by someone else. Someone still with SHIELD. Someone able to access the full details of the mission. 

Coulson glances between them, expression slipping just for a second, showing the exhausted resignation he feels. When he speaks, his voice is calm and very quiet.

“We have a traitor in our midst.”

Stiles sits down heavily in one of the armchairs. 

He’s exhausted and he just wants to find Steve and go home, but this is way more important. The thought of someone close to them, someone they’ve worked with, being a traitor is worse than all of the physical pain Stiles feels right now.

More than that, it’s _scary_. He has to trust these people. He has to put his life in their hands. And one of them – or, fuck, _more_ than one of them – could be a double spy. 

Bobbi sits down next to Stiles, pushing a hand through her blonde hair. She looks just as tired as Stiles feels and he knows that the shitshow of a mission – especially as they’d failed – is wearing on her since she was in charge of it. 

May just looks resigned. She folds her arms and remarks, “Not again.”

Coulson meets her gaze. The usual pleasant lines of his face are tight with stress and Stiles realizes how shitty this must be for him, to have to deal with another potential traitor in the organization after everything that went down with Hydra being inside SHIELD. After Ward.

“So, suspects,” Stiles says. “I’m guessing I’m not on the list, since I’m here.”

“Ward almost killed you,” Coulson agrees. 

“I dunno. He seems crazier than a box of frogs. Seems the type to straight up murder someone spying on his behalf.”

His mouth ticks up slightly. It’s not exactly a smile, but it’s close. “That’s true,” he acknowledges. “But I don’t think you’re the traitor.”

Stiles nods. “It’s not Allison.”

Coulson and May exchange a look at that and annoyance flashes through Stiles. He knows they have to be cautious, that they can’t afford to be lenient towards anyone, but if they can trust Stiles, then they can damn well trust Allison.

“She’s dating two of the best spies in the world,” he points out. “There’s no way they wouldn’t know if she wasn’t completely legit. Besides, she’s one of my best friends. I’ve known her since we were fifteen. It’s not Allison. Ward tried to kill her too, remember? She almost went out of that window before I did.”

“We have to be careful,” Bobbi soothes him. “Especially as we now know Hydra is involved.”

He frowns. “What has Hydra got to do with Allison?”

Another shared look and Stiles feels his hands curl into fists. They can’t tell him, fine, but he can’t just sit and listen to them discuss the possibility of _Allison_ being a goddamn traitor. 

“It’s not Allison,” he repeats firmly. “I can vouch for her. I’m sure Natasha will, too.”

For a long moment, Coulson just gazes at him. Then he sighs, giving a conceding nod. “Alright,” he agrees. “Would you bring her in on this?”

Stiles blinks. “I mean…isn’t that kind of _your_ call, Director?”

“You’re vouching for her. Would you trust Allison to help find the traitor?”

“Well, yeah, no shit. If anyone could sniff them out, it’s Allison. Trust me.” 

“Alright. And the others that were with you on this mission?”

Stiles pauses, chewing it over. “I mean, they were all at risk. Any of them could have got hurt or killed by Ward’s men. Which suggests that none of them are the traitor, but…again. Ward. Box of frogs. Who the hell knows?” He considers, chewing at his thumbnail. “Not Joanna – uh, Agent Bradley. She has almost as much reason to despise Hydra as you do. She wouldn’t betray SHIELD for Hydra. Jones…I don’t think it’s her, either. I mean, sure, she could be faking, but those morals, that genuine desire to do the right thing and help people? She’s too driven, too focused on excelling as an agent, to be a double spy. I don’t think it’s Lowell, either.”

It’s difficult to say it, since he and Lowell aren’t exactly buddies, but it’s true. Lowell can be an asshole, he can be arrogant and smarmy and annoying as hell, but in the field, he’s focused. He’s a good leader. He’s the first to lay down on the wire and the first to help out anyone else on the team. He’d patched Stiles up on the flight back, fully aware that Stiles wouldn’t go to medical once they arrived back at the base.

It could be fake. It could all be a part of his cover. But Stiles doesn’t think it is. 

“Agent Crawfield…” Stiles hesitates.

Coulson looks at him. “Yes?” 

“I don’t know how much of this is…uh, pettiness on my behalf,” he admits. “Because I really don’t like him. But Allison and I have noticed a kind of disparity between the guy you recruited and the person we train with. He’s…well, to be blunt, sir, he’s an asshole. He provokes arguments and fights. He’s bigoted. He acts like a high school bully.”

May glances at Coulson and the two of them seem to have a silent conversation. Stiles waits, tapping his fingers on the desk, until Coulson finally gives a small nod and returns his attention to Stiles.

“So you think it could be him?” he asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “No.” It surprises him to say it, but it’s true. “It’s too obvious. I mean, maybe it’s a double bluff, but if it is, it’s a damn _good_ one. I don’t know what his deal is, but I don’t think he’s the traitor.”

“Is there anyone you think could be a suspect?” 

Stiles thinks it over. He doesn’t know the other recruits as well as he does the ones he’s worked with the most, but from what he does know…he just can’t tell. Any one of them could be the wolf in the herd.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Sorry I can’t help. But, no offence, it might not even be one of the newbies. It could be anyone who works for SHIELD.”

“I know. But you tend to have a good insight into people’s character. I thought it would be a good place to start.” Coulson leans back against his desk. “I want you and Allison to keep an eye out. If anything seems suspicious, anything at all, then report it. Understood?”

Stiles nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you. You can go ahead and debrief with Agent Mackenzie.”

Stiles pulls himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He’s so tired, but the sooner he gets debriefing out of the way, the sooner he can go home and crawl into bed. Bobbi gives him a small, kind smile as he makes his way to the door.

Steve is stood outside, leaning against the opposite wall.

Stiles lets the door shut behind him. The corridor is empty except for the two of them and for a moment, Steve just gazes at him. Then he pushes away from the wall and steps forward, gathering Stiles in a careful hug.

“Hi,” Stiles manages, voice cracking slightly. “I’m sorry. About…well, everything. And for being a dick. I didn’t mean to be so harsh.”

“You had a point,” Steve murmurs, pulling back to gently cup Stiles’s jaw. “But you _fell_ , Stiles.”

He realizes that Steve’s fingers are trembling slightly. He’s seen Steve’s expression when Hydra is mentioned, or when they talk about Bucky’s time as the Winter Soldier. He’s seen that awful, haunted look in Steve’s eyes, but he’s never seen it like _this_. He looks shaken and cold, like he’s been ripped apart from the inside, and, suddenly, it all clicks into place.

Oh fuck. He’d fallen. Steve had heard him fall, heard him scream, unable to do anything about it.

Like Bucky.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Shit, Steve, I didn’t…I didn’t think about it. I’m okay, I promise.”

Steve hugs him again, just holding him for a long time. When he finally pulls back, he looks a little more settled, slowly stitching himself back together, piece by piece. 

“I have to debrief,” Stiles murmurs. “I won’t be long, okay?”

Steve nods, lips brushing against Stiles’s temple in a brief kiss. “I’ll wait.”

***

The first thing Stiles does when they get home is shower.

Steve joins him, one hand resting lightly on Stiles’s hip, just watching as Stiles washes away sweat and blood, careful of the bandage on his forearm. When Stiles finishes rinsing shampoo out of his hair, Steve’s hand moves, fingers gently mapping out the few bruises he’d sustained during the fight. There’s one on Stiles’s chest, where Ward had kicked him, and he presses his palm against it, feeling the heat of the bruise, gaze locked on Stiles’s face. 

The intimacy makes Stiles feel like he’s falling all over again, but this time, he doesn’t feel terrified. He feels safe, secure in the knowledge that Steve will catch him, will hold him, will shelter him from the whole world, just for a little while. 

He dries them both off and leads Steve into the bedroom. They crawl into bed, heedless of dawn creeping over the horizon, both of them exhausted and needing the rest and comfort. Steve lies with his back to the door, situated firmly between Stiles and any danger, and Stiles falls asleep first, drifting easily with Steve’s arms around him.

Steve’s nightmare isn’t a surprise.

He has them occasionally and Stiles remembers how it feels, to wake up crying, heart cracking open in his chest, the sheets tangled around him, suffocating him. Steve is usually silent, trembling through the dream, waking with an expression that’s ripped open and raw.

This time, he does make noise, murmuring Stiles’s name, a desperate plea that cuts Stiles to the core. He can imagine just what Steve is dreaming about and he holds him as he wakes up, murmuring soothing nonsense into Steve’s ear.

He lets Steve grip his arms, touch so careful despite his desperation, and fights off the tiredness still scratching behind his eyes. He stays awake and keeps talking, keeps touching, until Steve stops shaking, until the tears dry on his cheeks, and they stay there like that until the day shifts back into night.

***

Three days later, Stiles walks in on Natasha and Bucky leaning over the holographic table in the communal floor.

Natasha does a sliding movement with her hand, pulling up a photograph, and Stiles easily recognizes the man. Frowning, he crosses the room to join them. Allison’s sat on the couch, legs curled underneath her, a mug of coffee cupped in her palms. 

“Grant Ward,” Stiles says, watching as Natasha flicks through the large file. “Coulson got you looking for him?”

“No,” Natasha replies. There’s a cool note in her voice that mirrors the ice in Bucky’s gaze. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not going to.” She glances at Stiles. “He tried to throw Allison out of a window. He almost killed you. And he’s involved with both Hydra and Viper.”

Stiles nods. “Apparently, he’s been busy while he’s been laying low. Built Hydra back up out of the ashes after Project Insight failed. The amount of men he had just for security at the hotel…” he shakes his head slightly. “He’s a threat. He can’t be leading Hydra on his own, but he’s clearly one of the guys in charge.”

“Why Viper?” Allison questions. “I mean, it’s kind of conflicting, right? Hydra was built by a guy who had a version of the super soldier serum. They have a history of searching for alien artefacts that can be used to further their own agenda. Viper is against anything not completely human.”

Stiles shrugs. “Ward is the type of guy to align himself with whoever he needs in order to get what he wants. It doesn’t necessarily mean his views match theirs. Besides, he obviously had a version of the wannabe serum, since his men were jacked up on it. He got it from the Boyce twins. But he wanted Klapow’s advanced formula in particular, not the knock-off stuff the Boyce brothers created by altering Klapow’s recipe. It’s better, more stabilized, and doesn’t wear off so quick. I’m guessing he wants to create an army of juiced up Hydra soldiers.” 

“Plus there’s the extra benefit of Viper’s goal to take down superheroes,” Natasha adds. “Including us. Including SHIELD. Ward wants revenge on SHIELD, right? For being given to his brother, for killing his girlfriend, for whatever else he’s got it into his head that warrants destroying them. Viper’s motives align with his in that regard.”

Stiles blows out a breath. “Awesome. Okay. Coulson has agents searching for him. But he’s been completely off the grid for years. The guy’s a ghost.”

Natasha glances at Bucky and they share a small smile. “No one can be a ghost forever,” she says.

“There’s plenty of Hydra pockets in local criminal circles,” Bucky points out. “Just the grunts, yeah, but we hit the ground, we seek them out and get any names and information they have, and we can work our way up the ladder. Someone, somewhere, will be close enough to Ward to know his location.”

Stiles nods. He knows that if anyone can get to Ward, it’s Natasha, and it doesn’t matter how long it takes or how many people she has to get through in order to find him. She’ll do it. 

“Need any help?” he asks.

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s a stupid question,” she replies, but she’s smiling slightly. “Although, normally, I would actually take you up on the offer. But I don’t think Coulson would appreciate me stealing one of his agents. Especially when I hear you have your own mission.”

Stiles sighs. She’s right, though he has no idea where he’s going to start. Allison had been just as horrified when he’d brought her up to speed on the traitor situation. He’d watched as that shock shifted to anger and determination. There’d been something personal about it, something buried inside her clawing to get free as she agreed to help him keep an eye out for Coulson, to try and figure out who the traitor is.

He looks at the picture of Ward. He looks different; probably because it’s the photo of him from his SHIELD issue ID. His eyes look kinder, his expression a little more open, and it’s so believable that it makes ice slide down Stiles’s spine. He’s clearly good at lies and manipulation. 

All Stiles can think about is the cruel smile on the asshole’s face before he’d kicked him to his almost certain death.

Allison stands, setting her mug on the coffee table before joining them. Bucky rests a hand on the small of her back as she watches the screen. It’s filtering through the various files SHIELD has on Ward and she taps it to pause on a video that’s been playing on a loop in one corner. She flicks outwards with her fingers to expand the video until it takes up the whole screen, further information sliding across the bottom.

It’s part of an investigation into Ward and two other SHIELD agents after a mission went sideways and the person they were supposed to be protecting ended up dead. They’d ultimately been cleared of any responsibility for the failure, but the video is off the interviews, going over exactly what happened. 

Allison pauses it when the video changes to one of the other agents. She glances at Stiles. “Recognize him?”

He looks different – sandy hair slightly longer, nose straight instead of crooked from a bad break – but Stiles nods. “He’s the guard I killed.”

Natasha brings up the agent’s file. “Gregory Wood. He worked on a lot of missions with Ward. Another Hydra spy.” 

“And he stayed with Hydra and joined Ward when he started it up again,” Stiles says. “So maybe there’s others. More former SHIELD agents who were actually Hydra and are now working for Ward. If so…”

“We could find information from their files, find out where they are, and see if they can get us to Ward,” Natasha finishes, nodding once. 

Stiles grins slightly. Even though he won’t be going with them, he’s glad that there’s a plan to find Ward. He feels more than a little vindictive towards the guy after he kicked him out of a sixty five storey window.

“If you find him, punch him for me,” he says cheerfully before turning to Allison. “You ready to head to base?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Should you be training with a sprained shoulder?”

“Nope, but I’m going in anyway. I can watch you all spar. Might give me some indication of who’s not completely legit. It’s a long shot, I know, but I just…”

“You can’t just sit still when there’s someone dangerous in SHIELD,” she says, nodding. “I know.”

She turns, leaning up on her toes to kiss Bucky. He’s gentle, careful of the cut on her lip as his metal hand cradles her jaw, but he kisses her with a slow, deep passion that makes Stiles look away because it’s intimate enough for him to feel grossly voyeuristic. 

Allison has to angle down to kiss Natasha and it’s kind of comical, the height difference between the three of them. Then she glances at Stiles and grins slightly at the careful way he’s stepped back to give them privacy. She takes his hand, giving a little wave as they head to the elevator.

Before the doors slide shut, Stiles catches sight of Natasha and Bucky staring after Allison, and he laughs slightly, shaking his head.

“You have two terrifying former assassins wrapped around your little finger,” he remarks. “I don’t know if I’m impressed or concerned.”

She just smiles. “You’re impressed. Don’t even try to hide it.”

He laughs. “Yeah, fine, I’m impressed.”

She bumps her shoulder gently against his and the smile lingers on her face. She looks happy, completely and openly so, and fondness unfurls in Stiles’s chest.

“They’re good for you,” he murmurs.

She nods. “My dad isn’t impressed, but,” she shrugs slightly. 

“When has he ever been impressed with someone you’re dating?”

“He grew to tolerate Scott. But he thinks Natasha and Bucky are dangerous.” She rolls her eyes. “They _are_ dangerous, but not to me. And so am I. You’d think he’d just be glad that I’m happy.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I doubt he’ll give them the shovel talk. Anyone who would try that with Black Widow and Bucky Barnes must have balls of goddamn steel.”

Allison laughs, the tension that had crept over her face easing. “Yeah, he’s not jumping at the idea of meeting them, I gotta say.”

“If he tries to be a jerk, you can just remind him that Bucky is old enough to be his dad,” Stiles adds. “Whenever I bring up Steve’s actual age, my dad looks horrified. It’s hilarious.”

“You’re a menace, Stiles.”

He grins, unrepentant, and glances at the light above the door. They’re halfway to the ground floor and he pushes away from the wall, stretching -.

The elevator jerks to a sudden stop.

He stumbles, off balance, and Allison reaches out to anchor him with careful, steady hands. Stiles’s shoulder aches from the jolt and he finds Allison’s fingers, holding on for a moment. The lights have gone out, plunging them into darkness, and it’s so quiet that he can hear the soft sound of Allison breathing as they wait for a moment.

“Okay,” Stiles says after a moment, automatically pitching his voice low. It still seems too loud in the darkness, a little creepy. “This is Stark’s building. This elevator is run by JARVIS. There’s no way it should just break down. _Ever_.”

Allison’s fingers tighten around his. “Trouble?”

“I dunno. Maybe? I don’t…unless Tony shut JARVIS down for some reason, I don’t see why this would happen. Unless someone _else_ has managed to shut JARVIS down, which…is a terrifying concept.”

The building is pretty vulnerable without the AI; most of the security relies on JARVIS, after all, as well as a lot of the systems. Including the elevator. Stiles knows Tony has back up, knows that he’s not reckless enough to leave the building and its occupants completely open to attack in the event that JARVIS is taken out, but not having the AI available to answer their questions or monitor for any suspicious activity is more than a little unsettling.

The emergency lights are separate from JARVIS and flicker on a minute later, filling the elevator with soft blue-tinted light. But the elevator doesn’t start running again. For a moment, Stiles imagines he can hear the cables creaking, and tries to squash the anxiety in his gut. If the elevator falls, they’d be toast, but there’s no reason why the cables should fail. He’s just being paranoid.

The speakers crackle to life. “Bambi? Girl Hawkeye? You two okay in there?”

Allison’s eyes narrow. “ _Girl Hawkeye_?” she repeats. “I’m gonna kick your ass when we get out of here, Stark.”

“She-Legolas? Katniss? Merida? Any of these working for you?”

Stiles shakes his head slightly. “Tony, what the hell is going on?”

There’s a long pause. When Tony speaks again, the amusement is gone from his voice, replaced by a tight anger cut with concern. “JARVIS is down.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that out. But _how_?” 

“I don’t know,” he answers, bitterly honest. “Someone, somehow, must have accessed him remotely and shut him down.” 

A chill coils through Stiles, leaving frost wrapped around his ribs and ice in his belly. “There was no warning? Nothing?”

“No.”

“Fuck.” 

JARVIS is Tony Stark’s AI. There is no way, _no goddamn way_ , anyone should be able to hack into JARVIS’s servers and shut him down. Especially remotely. The thought that someone out there can actually do that, can fuck with Tony’s AI, is terrifying. Only someone with the kind of intelligence to rival Tony should be able to do it, and even then, they’d struggle, because JARVIS is up to the freaking eyeballs in security. The AI is more secure and protected than Tony Stark himself.

“JARVIS monitors the security feeds and alarms,” Stiles says. “But you can access it without him, right?”

“Obviously. What kind of idiot do you take me for, Bambi? And, no, before you ask, there isn’t anyone suspicious in or around the building. I don’t think we’re under attack.”

Stiles makes a dubious sound. “So, what? Someone decided to shut JARVIS down to fuck with you? Come on, Stark.”

“We need to get out of here,” Allison says. “If I can pop the maintenance hatch open, I can climb the cables. I can try and force the doors open on the next floor up, or Bucky can do it, if he gets there. We need to be prepared for an attack.”

“You haven’t got any gloves,” Stiles points out. “You’ll fuck up your hands.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Uh, yeah, no. Bambi’s right. It’s always annoying getting stabbed by Natasha, so there’s no way I’m gonna be responsible for you getting hurt.”

Allison visibly bristles. “I’m not weak -.”

“No. You’re not. But the top of that elevator is covered in tripping hazards and that’s gonna be a rough fall if you do. Not to mention if JARVIS recovers and the elevator starts moving.” Tony’s tone is firm, but then he adds, his smirk audible in his tone, “And look above you, Katniss. There isn’t a hatch.”

Both Stiles and Allison look up, eyeing the smooth ceiling. 

“I don’t need a hatch to do maintenance,” Tony says. “For one, JARVIS handles most of that. The hands on mechanical stuff I fix. Hell of a lot easier in the armor. Trust me, hatches are obsolete. The safest thing to do when you’re stuck in an elevator? _Stay put_.”

“Right, because safety is always your top concern,” Stiles points out. “Can you fix JARVIS?”

“Fuck you, Bambi, I’m tempted to just leave you in there,” he replies cheerfully. “Of course I can fix JARVIS. I’m already working on it.”

“Are the others safe?” Allison asks.

“They’re aware of what’s going on. Cap and Terminator have gone to check the perimeter and keep an eye out for anyone trying to ambush us while JARVIS is down.” 

Stiles nods. Most of the tension slides away so he sits down, leaning his back against the smooth wall of the elevator. After a moment, Allison joins him, knocking their knees together gently.

It’s beyond unsettling to think that someone has been able to get to JARVIS, especially without the AI catching the intrusion and alerting Tony. But he knows that, as soon as the AI’s systems are back online, Tony will find out exactly how JARVIS was breached, repair and secure it, and hopefully find the culprit. 

Stiles slips his phone out of his pocket. Allison glances over, eyebrow raised.

“Tony’s a genius, but who knows how long we’ll be in here?” Stiles points out, shrugging slightly. “I’m gonna play Pacman.” 

She smiles, sliding her own phone out of her jeans. “I bet I can beat your top score.”

“It’s on, Girl Hawkeye.”

She hits him carefully on his thigh for that and he laughs, offering a wink in response. 

As it turns out, it takes a full forty three minutes before Tony gets JARVIS back up and running. Stiles’s phone battery dies after twenty, leaving him to just sit and wait and watch Allison completely kick ass at Pacman on her own phone. 

The only warning they get is a victorious sound over the speakers and then the elevator is lit up by the usual bright, artificial lighting. A second later, Stiles’s stomach swoops slightly as they start descending again, taking them down to the ground floor.

The doors open and Steve and Bucky spill inside, both of them frowning. 

Stiles offers a little wave. “Hey. How’d the perimeter check go?”

“Nothing suspicious,” Steve replies. 

“Then what’s with the face, grumpy pants?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Steve says, shaking his head. “Why would someone go to all that trouble for no reason?”

“To see if they could?” Stiles suggests. “Make sure they can pull it off so they can try something at a later date, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Steve allows. “But Tony’s not just gonna patch up the breach. He’ll make sure it can’t happen again. Whoever it is, they’re smart enough to hack into JARVIS and shut him down, so they must know that. It’s…something just seems off about it.”

Stiles nods. Steve’s right; there’s a niggling feeling at the back of Stiles’s head, an itch under his skin that’s telling him that something isn’t right. But no matter how many scenarios he turns over his head, none of them make sense, and it’s frustrating.

He doesn’t like not knowing.

Predictably, Tony likes it even less.

When they reach the workshop, he’s stood up, arms folded over his chest. His spine is straight, body held taut, and Stiles has never seen him look so pissed off before – and he’s witnessed Tony get smacked into the ground by a knock-off Godzilla.

He realizes a second later _why_ Tony is so angry.

He’s _shaken_.

It’s not often that happens. It’s rare that something manages to cut through the armor Tony perpetually wears – and not the Iron Man one – and stick between his ribs. For something to crack that composure, that arrogance, that solid belief in being able to take on the whole world…then it must be pretty goddamn serious.

“Did you fix it?” Steve asks.

“Sir has located and repaired the breach. Current scans indicate that there are no further weaknesses.” JARVIS says.

“But could it happen again?” Stiles asks warily. “I mean, if it’s happened once…”

“Normally, I’d say no. I’ve taken the necessary measures to make sure it can’t happen again. But, theoretically, it shouldn’t have happened at _all_.” Tony’s voice is tight and clipped. “But it fucking did. So, no, I can’t say for certain that it can’t happen again.”

“Well, shit,” Stiles mutters. 

“Did you find out who did it?” Bucky demands.

“No.”

The single word is taut, like a piano wire straining between Tony’s clenched teeth. That probably stings as much, if not more, than the fact that JARVIS was attacked in the first place. 

“There isn’t any evidence, anything that might give us on a lead on who did it?” Allison asks.

“Oh, yeah, sure, they were nice enough to sign their name before they left.”

Bucky bristles slightly, but Allison just rolls her eyes at the snippy answer. Then she folds her arms and holds Tony’s gaze until he exhales in a harsh, shaky snap and his shoulders sag slightly.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Just…this isn’t good. JARVIS can’t find a trace of whoever did it. Which means they could do it again.”

“Okay,” Steve says, tone calm and composed enough to soothe. “Then you keep searching. Increase JARVIS’s security measures so that, if there is a next time, he can indicate if someone is trying to access him again. In the meantime, we’ll make some changes to the tower’s security to make sure it’s safe from attack in the event that JARVIS is hacked again.”

Tony nods, instantly mollified by a plan. “Got it, Cap. But, uh. Maybe take the stairs for a while.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Sure thing, Tony.”

***

Tony doesn’t want SHIELD to know about the breach.

It frustrates Stiles at first, because if this hacker is involved with Viper, or Hydra, or _both_ , then SHIELD needs to know for their investigation. Plus, he really doesn’t like the idea of keeping secrets from the organization he works for. He’s expected to just look Coulson in the face when he’s lying to him about something pretty serious?

Tony had rolled his eyes at Stiles’s discomfort. “Don’t be naïve, Bambi. Pick out any one of the agents working for SHIELD and I can guarantee they have secrets. They’re _spies_ for a living. Do you think Coulson is telling _you_ everything? You’re not lying to him.”

“SHEILD can help -.”

“No. I trust Coulson. _Barely_. The rest of them? Not so much. Agent Johnson, Quake, she used to be a member of the Rising Tide. Did you know she tried to hack into SI years ago? Shortly after I publicly announced that I’m Iron Man. I shut her out pretty damn quick, but she’s good. Good enough to pull something like this off.”

Stiles had bristled. “Daisy wouldn’t do that. She wants to take down Viper and Hydra just as much as we do. Or did you forget that she’s one of their targets?”

“Right, sure, it’s probably not her. But the point stands that it _could_ have been. Who knows who else in SHIELD could pull it off? There’s a traitor in the organization. Maybe even more than one.”

Which had made sense. Stiles had reluctantly agreed, the tension easing out of him. He figured that Coulson would understand the situation if – when – he finds out and would agree with Stiles’s actions.

And if he doesn’t…well. Stiles is loyal to Steve, to Tony, to the whole team. Coulson has to understand _that_ , at least.

“Besides,” Tony had added. “I don’t want anyone outside of us knowing about the breach. Even if someone wasn’t involved the hack, they might jump at the chance to take advantage of it. There’s one hell of a long list of people who aren’t a fan of me, Bambi. It doesn’t matter if they work for SHIELD.” 

Still. 

While Stiles understands and actually agrees with Tony, he still feels guilty when he sees Coulson and doesn’t tell him a single thing about what happened in the tower. He respects Coulson. More than that, he trusts him, and he likes his boss; he appreciates the mild, sassy kind of humor lurking under that bland, bureaucratic exterior. It feels wrong to not be honest with him. He’s not outright lying, sure, but it’s a lie by omission, and when SHIELD is already dealing with one potential traitor…the guilt tangles his belly up into knots. 

Stiles has always been good at lying, which isn’t something he’s _proud_ of, exactly, but it does come in handy now he’s an agent of SHIELD. He’d learned pretty early on as a kid that outright lies and carefully cultivated stories rarely work. The trick is to weave little white lies into a careful pattern, toeing the line of complete lies without crossing it, to inject partial truths into the story to make it more believable. 

Words are just as effective a weapon as guns. He knows that more intimately these days. Circling the truth, guiding the other person around in careful manipulations while maintaining the illusion of being honest, sometimes wielding words as a way to confuse others into believing him, that’s the trick to getting away with it. That’s how to lie to the best damn spies out there and have them believe you; that’s how to deceive lie detectors. It’s part of their training, but Stiles has always had a solid foundation in not-quite-lying.

So Coulson doesn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary when Stiles answers his question of how things are going with a blithe: 

“My shoulder hurts like hell and I’m kind of hoping Natasha brings Ward in alive so I can kick _him_ out of a window, the asshole.” 

After all, it’s the truth. Just not the _whole_ truth. 

Coulson nods. “Any thoughts on the wolf in our herd?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. Honestly, I don’t think it’s any of the recruits or new agents, Coulson. I mean, I’m still fresh to this, so, let’s be real. Any one of them could easily deceive me. I’m not gonna be much help on that front. But from what I’ve read about Ward…I dunno, he just doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to take a risk on hiring a newbie to be his spy.”

“I agree,” Coulson replies. “But we have to cover all bases. We’ve been looking into every single member of staff and none of them seem suspicious. I’ve asked you and Allison to keep an eye on the other recruits because if it _is_ one of them, they’ll instantly know that something is up if upper level agents start paying more attention. They won’t suspect that you’ll be in the loop and keeping an eye out on my behalf, since you’ve got the same clearance level as them.”

Stiles hesitates. It’s really not his place to say this, but he’s never been good at biting his tongue, so he offers, carefully, “Are you sure you’re not just _hoping_ it’s a newbie? Because the alternative is that someone you’ve worked with for a while, someone who you trust, has betrayed you. Again.” 

For a long moment, Coulson just gazes at him. Finally, his mouth twitches up into an approximation of a smile. “That’s the other reason I brought you in on this. You’ve got a natural talent for assessing people’s character and seeing straight through any masks.” 

“I’d be flattered, but I’m gonna have to disagree. I’ve been trying to get a read on everyone and I just can’t figure out who it could be.” 

“I had May look into Crawfield,” Coulson says. “He’s clean. Whatever the reason for his behaviour towards you, I don’t think he’s our traitor.”

Stiles nods. “He’s a dick. Sure, he’s smart enough to be a member of Mensa -.”

Coulson tilts his head slightly. “He made it clear he didn’t want people knowing that. Didn’t want people having certain assumptions of him. Did you get Stark to hack his file?”

“No,” Stiles replies.

Another not-exactly-a-lie. Because he hadn’t; Allison and Margot had hacked the file. But he’s not going to tell Coulson that. After all, he’s been loyal to Allison for far longer than he has been to SHIELD. 

Still, that’s twice in one meeting that he’s been less than truthful with Coulson. He feels like a dick, especially because Coulson has trusted him enough to bring him in on the investigation to find the traitor.

He clears his throat. “Uh, anyway. He’s a genius, right? So, sure, he could probably pull off a con on this level, but I just…he’s an asshole, but I don’t think he’s the type to betray SHIELD like that.”

Coulson smiles slightly. “That’s why I think you have a natural ability in character assessment. You can look past your own personal opinions of someone when it’s important.”

Stiles shrugs, careful of his sore shoulder. “I don’t trust him, but not because I think he’s a traitor. Something still is off about him, with how drastically different his behaviour is from the guy you recruited. He provokes Agent Bradley and apparently likes to piss me off almost as much. I don’t trust him to have my back.”

Despite how similar Lowell and Crawfield are in their ability to be complete assholes, that is the fundamental difference between them: Stiles trusts Lowell to have his back in the field, regardless of how much they snipe at each other the rest of the time. He can’t say the same for Crawfield. 

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Coulson assures him. “If you think something is off with him, then I trust your judgement.”

Stiles nods. He thinks for a moment, then asks, “Anderson’s sister works for SHIELD, right? She’s a handler?”

“Yes. Why?”

“The details of our mission were classified. Only the people who were involved or someone with enough security clearance to access the full operation file would know the plan. I don’t think it was anyone on the team, which leaves the latter. They knew to have enough men to shut down each floor and the elevator and have a large amount of guards on the ground floor, where Agent May was. Ward’s spy had full access to the file, no redactions, which suggests at least administration level clearance. Anderson’s sister has a history of having a pretty loose mouth; she told him all about me getting kidnapped.” 

Coulson nods. “We’ve considered that,” he says. “Agent Johnson looked at the history of access to the file. Nothing suspicious.” 

Stiles leans back in his chair with a sigh, the potential lead evaporating like smoke and leaving a bad taste in his mouth. 

“What’s the next move?” he asks. “This is too much of a risk, Coulson. If someone is selling us out to Hydra…someone could get hurt next time. I mean, more hurt than getting kicked out of a window.”

“We’ve pooled together a list of anyone who could have the ability to do it,” Coulson says. “We’ve narrowed it down by potential motives, personality profiles and agent history. If we can’t figure out who it is, I’ll shut down anyone on that list, suspend them from active duty and remove their security clearance. It’s the safest option until we can find the culprit. I’m also going to implement regular lie detector tests. For everyone.” 

Stiles relaxes slightly, relieved to know that there is a solid plan. Whoever it is might be able to trick a lie detector test, but the technician will be fully aware of the SHIELD training, will be able to keep a sharp eye out for any of the tricks that agents are taught. That alone will flag up anyone suspicious, even if the test itself is clean. 

He feels better knowing that the security is going to be tightened in the hopes of smoking out the traitor in their midst.

“Do you still want me to keep an eye on the others?” Stiles asks.

“I think we both know that you’ll still do it regardless of what I say,” Coulson points out, amused. 

“Well, yeah. The thought that I might be brushing shoulders with a Hydra spy doesn’t exactly help me sleep at night. I don’t…it doesn’t feel right spying on them, but if it helps us find the culprit, then hell yeah I’m gonna still do it. Besides, I’m not really close to most of them. A lot of them think I’m just here because of Steve.”

“Does that make it easier?”

“I feel less like a dick for spying on them, yeah, but it doesn’t make it easier. They don’t like me and they don’t trust me.” Stiles replies. “Allison is doing a lot better in that regard. She had Anderson eating out of the palm of her hand in less than an hour.”

Allison is perfect for this kind of stealth work. It’s impossible not to like her; she could easily have everyone wrapped around her little finger if she wanted. It isn’t hard for her to get close to someone. She’s also naturally warm and sweet, with adorable dimples, eyes that would put any Disney character to shame, and she always comes across as so open and friendly. It’s worryingly easy to forget that behind those beautiful smiles is a shark. 

Coulson nods. “Then keep it up. At this stage, anything even remotely suspicious or out of sorts is a potential lead.”

“Is there anything more on Ward?”

“He’s laying low again. We’ve found a few people involved in his Hydra group, but no one is talking. But we’ll find him. He’s shown his face once. I don’t think it’ll be long before he crops up again.”

“And Viper?”

“We’ve spoken to a few more members, but they’re not really organized. They don’t have any information on anyone higher up in the group. But I suspect Viper might be more linked to Hydra than we initially thought. More videos are popping up and the rhetoric is becoming more and more consistent with some Hydra slogans. Ward is using them, pooling their resources.”

“He’s using them to get to SHIELD,” Stiles says with a sigh. “And to gain more power for himself and his little Hydra dynasty.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think ‘little’ is an apt description. We knew Ward was building his own Hydra cell, pulling in former agents and recruiting new ones. But we now have a good indication of the sheer scale of it and its larger that we’d expected. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s recruited some powerful allies, too. Judges, senators, politicians, wealthy benefactors. He learned from some of the best Hydra agents, after all.”

“Well, fuck. That’s concerning.”

“And that’s not all.” 

Coulson taps something on his tablet before turning it so Stiles can see the screen. It’s a picture of a protest in DC. He recognizes the Viper masks and logos instantly and sighs when he notices that around half of the masks are different, though just as ugly and threatening.

“The Watchdogs,” he mutters. “They’ve been quiet for a while. I was hoping they were dying out.”

“The opposite, actually. Just taking the time to organize themselves better, recruit new members and expand their size and strength. And now they’ve allied themselves with Viper, quite publicly, actually.”

“Makes sense,” Stiles says, nodding. “They have pretty similar views on Inhumans, after all. And openly working together is an obvious threat. They want to make a show of strength.”

“Exactly.”

Stiles sighs. “So, Hydra, Viper and the Watchdogs walk into a bar and I really wish there was a goddamn punchline to all of this.” He shakes his head slightly. “They’re trying to be discreet on being involved with Hydra, though.”

“Being tied to Hydra would limit the influence they could have on people,” Coulson replies. “Project Insight is still pretty fresh in people’s minds and, despite Hydra’s attempts, it’s widely known how Hydra started. People are less likely to be convinced to support the cause if they know both groups are involved with Hydra.”

“Right. But the thought of the three groups working together is pretty chilling, Coulson. I really don’t like this. Especially if they’ve got eyes and ears in SHIELD itself.”

“You and I both.”

“Okay. So, our attempts to find Ward are currently a no-go. But Natasha and Bucky are looking for him. The whole trying to kill Allison thing hit them pretty personally. I almost feel sorry for Ward.”

Coulson smiles. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I really don’t. Fucker can die a slow, painful death for all I care. But don’t tell Steve I said that, he’s not big on the whole torture thing. Thinks it’s dishonourable.”

“It is,” Coulson agrees. His tone is mild, but there’s something dark and ugly lacing it. “Sometimes it’s also necessary.” 

Stiles knows Coulson wouldn’t sanction torture unless it was truly the last possible option, and even then he likely wouldn’t do it. There are other ways to get information, even if it takes longer. But it would be naïve to think that SHIELD has never engaged in that kind of thing. It would be even more naïve to believe that Coulson has never been involved in it, either. 

Stiles is fully aware of the reason why the highest clearance agents share a lot of personality traits.

“I think if anyone can find Ward, it’s those two,” he says, switching subjects quickly. “Natasha’s an expert. And Bucky’s training from back…from back then, that will be useful. He knows how to get information, how to find people.”

“Normally, I wouldn’t doubt their ability for a second. But Ward is incredibly good at being a ghost when he wants to be. SHIELD have been looking for him for years with no progress at all. When he chooses to disappear…it’s impossible to find him.”

“Nothing is impossible, just improbable,” Stiles replies, quirking a little grin. “Besides, no one can be a ghost forever.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think we can put too much hope in finding Ward at this stage. Our priority is finding his spy.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: graphic violence, guns, knives, description of injuries, explosions, fire, and just general violent chaos tbh

Natasha and Bucky disappear for a week.

When they come back empty-handed, Stiles has a sinking feeling that Coulson is right. The thought of Ward being good enough to avoid even the Black Widow and former Winter Soldier is pretty damn concerning. 

Allison isn’t impressed at being left behind by them, either, regardless of the fact that their actions aren’t technically sanctioned by her own boss. Stiles keeps well away from all of it the day Bucky and Natasha return, instead spending time in the gym with Clint, Thor, Steve, Tony and a guy called Falcon.

Stiles recognizes Sam from the footage on the news of the Helicarriers going down after Project Insight failed, but more so from the stuff Steve has told him about his friend. He’d turned down a permanent position on the team, preferring to say in DC; he runs a VA group, spends a lot of time volunteering and helping veterans, and that is his priority. But he’s a reserve member, available for back up when other members of the team – particularly aerial support – are down, or if a threat is big enough to require a stronger show of force. 

There’s more reserve members, apparently; War Machine, Rescue (Pepper prefers to keep out of battle for the most part, instead focusing on rescue and recovery; Stiles has seen footage of her testing out the suit and she’s _incredible_ ), Ant-Man, Wasp, Agent 13, and even Spider-Man is counted as a back-up member for the team, although technically he’s more of an ally. The team also, occasionally, when necessary for a threat bigger than the Avengers are able to handle alone, team up with the Fantastic Four and, on one memorable and mildly disastrous occasion, The Defenders.

Stiles watches Sam glide through the air. The wings are incredible and the way he moves with them is almost natural, like the metal weighs nothing and the skill necessary to manipulate that kind of technology is as easy to him as breathing. He swerves to avoid Mjolnir and when the hammer arcs back towards Thor’s waiting hand, Sam folds the wings and brings his legs up into a controlled free fall to avoid getting hit with it. The wings snap open again a few feet above the ground and he flies parallel to it for a moment before soaring upwards again.

Tony’s in his armor, but he’s not involved in the training itself; instead, he’s monitoring their moves and performance, occasionally making notes out loud for JARVIS to record. Steve and Clint seem practically oblivious to a guy with metal wings and the literal God of Thunder duking it out in the same room, focused instead on their own match in the boxing ring.

Stiles waits until they take a break before jumping up onto the edge, leaning his arms on the ropes. Steve’s barely out of breath and he grins, leaning in to press a brief, fond kiss to Stiles’s mouth.

“Steve, baby, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re officially not the coolest guy in the room anymore. Sam has _wings_. Metal wings.”

Steve just laughs. “They’re pretty neat,” he agrees.

“ _Neat_ ,” Stiles repeats. “They’re insane.”

“Hey, Bird Brain,” Tony calls. 

Both Clint and Sam stop to look at him and Tony snorts out a little laugh. 

“I meant Sam,” he clarifies.

Clint huffs. “I thought _I_ was your Bird Brain,” he mocks, the smirk on his face contradicting the offended note in his voice. “I feel like I’m being replaced.”

“Believe me, _no one_ can replace you, Tweety Bird,” Tony replies easily. It’s definitely not said as a compliment and he laughs as Clint lifts his middle finger in response.

Sam drops to the floor with practised grace, barely pausing before he’s walking towards Tony, wings folded neatly in. 

“Right wing is sticking slightly, huh?” Tony says, reaching out to examine the wings. 

“Yeah, I noticed it on that tight loop,” Sam agrees. “It’s dragging a little.” 

“I think it’s this first joint. The gears are grinding slightly.” Tony presses slightly at the joint in question, then pulls carefully at the wing, listening intently at the metallic creak of the servos inside working. “Yeah, that’s the one. Easy enough fix. Come on.”

“Can I come?” Stiles asks hopefully. 

Sam glances at him. “You a mechanic? Steve said you work for SHIELD.”

“No, Bambi’s just curious. He appreciates technological genius. Especially when it’s _my_ technological genius but, really, who can blame him. Your wings are a thing of beauty.”

“I’m not responding to that,” Stiles says, then glances at Sam. “I make a point of refusing to feed his ego.”

“Usually a good idea,” Sam agrees. “I made the mistake of complimenting him once. Never again.”

Tony just grins at their playful barbs, waving a dismissive hand as he leads the way to the elevator. 

The lights in the workshop automatically flicker on when they step inside. AC/DC starts up, but Tony makes a little gesture and it shuts off again a second later. Sam is clearly familiar with the workshop from having repairs or upgrades done on the wings in the past. He sets the wings on the table and takes a seat. 

“I can probably improve a couple of things while I’m in there,” Tony remarks. “Make it a little lighter, which will make the weight easier to bear without compromising on power or performance. I’ve figured out a way to reduce lift-induced drag, too. I could make a couple of adjustments to the wings’ ability to generate airflow, which will create more of a lift. That’ll help when you’re taking off from the ground, or if you need to get in the air in a hurry. What do you think?” 

“Sounds good,” Sam agrees. “Just don’t put rocket launchers in them and we’re golden.”

Stiles grins slightly at the mental image. Tony just shakes his head, muttering slightly about how rocket launchers would sacrifice both structural integrity and weight compensation, which Sam cheerfully ignores.

Stiles watches as Tony gets to work. Sometimes, the older man gets a bit snippy about being observed, but most of the time, he doesn’t even notice, too lost in his work. There are also the times when he clearly enjoys having a captive audience and explains what he’s doing, occasionally bouncing ideas back and forth.

It’s fascinating. Tony runs his adjustments through with JARVIS, the AI projecting simulations to ensure the changes won’t affect optimal performance, and not once does he falter in his work, hands careful and meticulous as he opens the wings up, first fixing the minor problem with the gears inside the first joint before turning his attention to the circuitry itself, running through general maintenance. Then he starts on the adjustments themselves.

After about half an hour, Tony catches Stiles’s rapt attention and rolls his eyes. He brings up a hologram and does a sliding motion with his hand; it zips through the air to stop in front of Stiles.

It’s the blueprints for the wings. Stiles can focus in on each section, pull the image apart into a 3D model so he can examine each component from all angles, seeing how it all comes together, how it works. Tony talks through his adjustments so Stiles can make sense of how they’ll apply to the wings. It’s incredible. Everyone knows that Tony Stark is a genius, but it’s always kind of awe-inspiring to be presented so thoroughly with the evidence of that much technological innovation. 

After a while, Stiles closes the blueprints and sits back in his seat. Sam’s on his phone, but he does glance over at Tony frequently, not out of doubt but out of interest in seeing the adjustments to his wings. Occasionally, Tony has him put the wings on, works him through extending them and folding them, lifting into the air and landing, to test the performance and calculate further little fixes. Finally, though, he seems finished.

“Thanks, man,” Sam says. 

Tony waves off the gratitude, already pulling up another project. Sam claps his hand on Stiles’s shoulder as he leaves. Once the doors are shut, Stiles looks back at Tony.

“Any more issues with JARVIS?” he asks.

“Nope,” Tony replies. “Those adjustments I made are holding.”

Stiles nods, relieved. Tony had bounced his ideas off Stiles and Bruce; Stiles hadn’t been much help, since, while he understands a lot more than he used to thanks to spending so much time with Tony and the AI itself, he doesn’t have much to offer in terms of actual ideas for increasing the servers’ security. Bruce had been brilliant, though, and just listening had put Stiles’s mind at ease. He hates feeling vulnerable, especially when the Avengers tower should be one of the most secure buildings in the world. 

Stiles spins in his chair slightly, letting the familiar sounds inside the workshop wash over him. He ends up dozing, only waking up when Tony kicks him out. 

“Hey, JARVIS?” Stiles asks as he steps into the elevator. “Where is everyone?”

JARVIS rattles off a quick list; Sam and Allison have both left the tower, Clint and Thor are still working out in the gym, and the others are all on the communal floor. Stiles decides to join them. 

Natasha’s sat in the armchair, legs dangling over the side, her attention on the tablet in her hands. Bucky’s on the floor, head leaning against the side of Natasha’s chair, his eyes closed like he’s sleeping but Stiles knows better; Bucky never sleeps when he’s in the open and surrounded by people, even if it’s those he trusts more than anyone. Bruce is in the kitchen, managing to spoon soup into his mouth without spilling it while he’s clearly distracted by what he’s reading. 

And Steve’s on the couch, his sketchbook in his lap. He’s showered, hair still a little damp, and dressed down in sweatpants and a white shirt. He looks so good that Stiles just wants to _lick_ , but he resists the temptation, holding onto propriety for the sake of everyone else as he drops down onto the couch next to Steve.

“How was today’s ‘let’s learn with Tony’?” Natasha drawls.

Stiles snorts. “Oh, please. I’ve seen you watch him fix up your Widow Bites. You find it just as interesting as I do.”

She doesn’t respond, but her mouth curls into a reluctant smile. 

Stiles scoots closer to Steve, peering at the notebook. It’s a sketch of Thor and Sam fighting, clearly dramatized since there’s lightning spiking out from Mjolnir even though Thor never, ever conjures actual lightning while sparring. It looks like something out of a comic book, fun and goofy, but he’s expertly captured the exhilarated joy on Thor’s face and the grin on Sam’s, rendering them almost lifelike despite the exaggerated details.

“Hey,” Stiles murmurs, smiling. “That’s really good.”

Steve tilts his head to kiss Stiles’s jaw. “I’m gonna give it to Sam.” 

“He’ll love it.” Stiles leans his head on Steve’s shoulder and looks at Natasha. “So. That lead on Ward was a bust, huh?”

“Frustratingly, yes,” she replies, glancing up. “You should be speaking in Russian.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. It had, technically, been his idea, to practise his languages more around the tower instead of only when he’s actively learning using JARVIS’s program, but he hadn’t expected Natasha to be so stringent about it.

“Fine,” he agrees. “Russian it is.”

“Good,” she approves, switching languages more smoothly than silk, Russian rolling off her tongue. “You’re getting better, even if you don’t think it.”

“Maybe,” he allows. His own attempt is a little more stilted and clunky; he’s better at understanding the language than speaking it, but he does improve the more he practises. “Bucky’s been helping. And Bobbi and Allison.”

Natasha nods. “Her Russian is very good,” she agrees. 

Bucky doesn’t open his eyes, but he does smirk slightly, and Stiles decides to leave that thread of conversation right there. 

He watches the graceful sweep of Steve’s hand across the page, the careful, elegant way he flicks the pencil in his hand, shading in part of the drawing. It’s so simple but so endearing to watch. Stiles has always sucked at art, so it’s fascinating to watch Steve create something incredible. 

“Hey,” he murmurs after a moment, still in Russian, mouth tipped towards Steve’s ear. “I want you to pin me down and fuck me until I’m begging for it.” 

Steve’s hand goes completely still, a flush stealing across his skin, and Stiles grins as Bucky mutters something under his breath.

“Stiles, stop asking Tony to teach you filthy things in other languages,” Natasha says, completely unruffled. 

“But he’s the best for it. He’s taught me all the swear words.”

Steve shakes his head slightly, smiling. “Of course he has.”

Stiles grins and settles, content to just watch Steve draw for a while. It’s peaceful, quiet in a way that’s soothing rather than stifling, and he lets himself unwind, not quite drifting asleep but not exactly fully alert, either. 

Bruce washes up and heads for the elevator, letting them know he’ll be in his lab. Stiles considers asking to join him. He spends less time in Bruce’s lab than he does in Tony’s workshop, simply because, while Bruce’s work is mind blowing, he struggles to understand it, and he’s less motivated to learn about it than he is with Tony’s brand of science. Besides, sometimes there are volatile things down there, and Stiles has learned that he can be a menace around things that can go _boom_.

Plus, he doesn’t want to run the risk of bothering Bruce. The guy has incredible control – he and the big green guy seem to have more of a symbiotic relationship these days, rather than a Jekyll and Hyde deal going on - but Stiles isn’t foolish enough to push too much. 

Still, it’s oddly calming to watch Bruce work. He tends to mumble a lot, not really speaking to Stiles, just using him to bounce ideas off, figuring things out with remarkable speed. The dude has a brilliant mind and, most of the time, he seems happy enough to talk to Stiles about the stuff he’s working on, or about past papers of his that Stiles has read. Unlike Tony, who can have a tendency to jump ahead, always fifteen steps further than everyone else and too impatient to wait for them to catch up, Bruce is more than willing to slow down and explain things when Stiles doesn’t understand. 

Tiredness wins out over curiosity, so Stiles just offers a wave as the elevator doors slide shut. He settles even closer against Steve, using his shoulder as a pillow, and Steve adjusts his position so he can carry on sketching while one arm curls around Stiles in a loose hug. 

Stiles ends up falling asleep like that, only waking briefly when Steve carries him to their bedroom. 

***

The motorcycle is gorgeous.

Sleek and powerful and, more importantly, it’s modified by Tony Stark himself. Stiles had chosen the model – a Yamaha YZF-R3 – and bought it, but after checking that certain modifications wouldn’t get him in any legal trouble (perks of being an agent of SHIELD), he’d let Tony get his hands on it.

The paintjob is beautiful, pure, deep black, gleaming slightly under the workshop’s lights, with a few subtle touches of dark matte red; it means that the motorcycle can blend easily into the darkness if he ever has to use it for covert matters. The engine is modified, too, and while Stiles had liked the velvet purr when he’d first started the bike up, he agrees that the near silence of the new one is more ideal. The tyres have been swapped for custom run-flat ones and, overall, the bike can be faster and more powerful if he ever finds himself in a situation needing it.

“I also put a tracker on it,” Tony says, tossing Stiles the keys. “So, if you ever go missing, or the bike gets stolen, it can be easily traced.” 

Stiles smiles. He doesn’t plan on the bike ever being stolen, but it’s nice to know about the added security measure. He crouches to examine the bike, running his hands over the cool, sleek frame. It had taken Tony less than a day to complete it, but he’d seemed to enjoy it; he likes working on cars, fixing them up or improving them, and he’s even let Stiles and Steve help him work on a couple of his vintage models a couple of times.

“Go ahead,” Tony says. “Take her out for a test, open her up.”

“And get arrested for speeding?” Stiles replies with a grin. “I only plan on using it to its full potential in situations where I _have_ to.”

“Buzzkill. Agent would swing you out of any speeding fines.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, no, he wouldn’t,” Tony agrees. “Next time we head upstate and we’re on my private land, you can test her properly.”

Stiles nods. “Thanks, Tony.”

He waves away the gratitude, folding his arms over his chest as he runs his gaze over the bike. “You know, if you’d let me add some defensive features...”

“They wouldn’t be legal, even for a SHIELD agent,” Stiles reminds him. “Besides, I don’t need a bike that can shoot rockets or whatever. I need a bike that can get me from A to B but is still useful if I ever find myself in a sticky situation.”

“It looks good,” Steve says, heading into the workshop. “Are you planning on trying her out?”

Stiles nods. “Wanna join me?”

Steve grins slightly, lifting the helmet that’s dangling from one hand. “I was hoping to.” 

Stiles has witnessed first-hand Steve driving without a helmet and had quickly put a stop to that. Super soldier or not, coming off a bike going sixty plus and smashing his skull into the ground isn’t going to be great. He always wears his Captain America helmet when riding his bike on a mission, yet when it’s just him, he seems to prefer the wind in his hair, but no, just _no_. 

Stiles’s dad had shown him the pictures of what happens when bare flesh meets the road at top speed. He’s invested in Steve keeping his skin right where it belongs and his brain tucked safely inside his skull, so he’d insisted on helmets and gloves at the very _least_. Steve had smiled, amused and fond, but reluctantly agreed when Stiles pointedly asked how he’d feel if _Stiles_ rode without protective gear. 

Steve’s wearing his leather jacket, which is thick enough to offer some protection even without padding, jeans, and boots and gloves. He’s got the serum on his side, so Stiles decides it’s good enough. 

He’s geared up properly; his jacket is pretty neat, leather that fits snugly and isn’t bulky or cumbersome, but is lined with impact absorbing material and sealed to protect him from cold weather and high wind speeds. Normally, he wouldn’t wear jeans (his dad’s numerous rants about safe riding clothing echoes in his head even years later), but they’re a state-of-the-art design from Tony, a result of his experiment to create better protective casual clothes for Natasha and Clint, and they fit as slimly and comfortably as Stiles’s usual jeans but include Kevlar panels to protect against abrasion and impact absorption pads in the knees, hips and shins while retaining full leg articulation. He’d bought a pair of boots that are sturdy and have oil-resistant, non-slip soles with a metal plate running through them, strong heel and toe boxes and good ankle support. His gloves are another sleek Tony design, abrasion-resistant with Kevlar stitching and armor protecting his knuckles and the base of his palm, made from a material that will slide rather than catch on the road, but still managing to not feel bulky or inhibit any movement in his hands. 

Stiles can be reckless, sure, and he has a job that involves a significant risk to his own life at times. But he’s not _stupid_.

He grabs his gloves, sliding them on, and snaps the retention straps into place around his wrists. He reaches for his helmet but pauses when he sees Steve just watching him, a familiar gleam in his blue eyes.

“You look good,” he murmurs, stepping close to take Stiles’s helmet. “ _Really_ good.”

Stiles grins, a little thrill of heat zipping down into his belly. “So do you.” 

“Uh huh, you can bang each other on the motorcycle later, when you’re not in my workshop,” Tony cuts in dryly. 

Stiles grins, making a quick mental note of that particular idea. Steve kisses him softly before placing the helmet on Stiles’s head, neatly adjusting it and locking it in place. He gives a fond little rap of his knuckles on the side of it before stepping back. 

Stiles smiles and straddles his bike. He twists so he can watch Steve settle on his own motorcycle, a sleek black Harley-Davidson Softail Slim, and he’ll never _not_ be turned on by the sight of those strong thighs straddling the bike, by the perfect line of Steve’s body and his confidence in his ability to handle a powerful machine. 

They’re in the workshop on the ground floor, where Tony’s cars are located and where he accepts larger deliveries before sending them up in a freight elevator to his preferred workshop higher in the building. This one is more cluttered, dustier and greasier and more like a mechanic’s workshop than the futuristic, sleek engineering lab upstairs. 

Tony hits the button so the large door rattles up, letting in a sharp gust of winter air that Stiles can’t feel through his gear and a burst of flat, bleak daylight. 

The helmets have built in comms and Stiles hears Steve’s voice right in his ear, smooth and clear as if he’s standing right next to him.

“Ready?”

Stiles grins. “Hell yeah.”

He snaps the front of the helmet closed, starts the engine, and takes off, feeling a thrill of exhilaration at the near silent purr of the bike, the sensation of its leashed power and strength underneath him as he leans forward, gliding out onto the road.

“Pretty smooth, huh?” Steve says. “Tony did a good job.”

“He did,” Stiles agrees. “I’m gonna get him a muffin basket.”

Steve laughs. “He likes blueberry.”

Stiles smiles. The helmet’s design is perfect, cancelling out most of the loud rush of the wind at high speeds while ensuring he’ll still be able to hear other vehicles and potential hazards. 

“I feel sexy right now,” he says. He glances in the mirror, catches sight of Steve behind him, and grins. “Do I look sexy right now?” 

“Always,” Steve replies, a smile in his voice. 

“Good.” A bug hits Stiles’s helmet, smearing slightly on the clear part without obstructing his view. “Okay, ew.”

They ride for a while, communicating to let each other know when they’re going to turn off or loop in a different direction. Stiles itches to open the bike up properly, to see what it can really do, but on the city roads it’s just not worth the risk. Or the speeding fine. 

After a while, Steve asks, “Are you busy on Saturday night?”

“Well, I did have plans that included ordering a pizza, watching a movie and blowing my boyfriend.”

He huffs a little laugh. “Sounds like fun. Think you can move those plans to Sunday instead?”

Stiles grins. “I might be able to work something out. Why?”

“Wanna step out with me? Tony’s got the -.”

“Right, the charity gala,” Stiles finishes, remembering. It’s an annual thing, raising funds not only for the Avengers, but for various other community-focused charities and projects, too. It’s pretty popular, especially since one of its priority charities is one focused on helping those affected by the Battle of New York and subsequent alien related near-disasters.

He’d once, admittedly uncharitably, thought that it was a nice way for Tony to boost his PR as well as help with the cost of keeping the Avengers running. As rich as he is, even Tony Stark has to rely on donations from various wealthy supports and organizations to help cover said cost. But since living with the man, he’s seen Tony blow off different events, yet he knows for a fact that Tony always puts effort into the annual gala, not only organizing it (with Pepper’s help) and attending it but also schmoozing and flattering potential donors to help increase money being offered to the various charities.

“The whole team always attends,” Steve says. “It can be a little overwhelming, a lot of press and a lot of guests who are, well, uh -.”

“Like Tony?” Stiles offers with a grin. “But a lot less charming and a lot smarmier?”

“Something like that. Would you like to be my plus one?”

“Sure. Do I need a nice monkey suit?” 

“I’m sure Tony can help you out,” Steve suggests.

“Ugh, yeah, no. I’ll rope Lydia or Jackson in to help.”

“Probably wise.” 

Stiles smiles, taking a turn smoothly. He can’t wait to test the bike somewhere where there’s less traffic and more freedom, somewhere with hairpin turns where he can just let go and enjoy the thrill of the ride. 

Eventually, when the clouds start to darken with the promise of rain, they head back to the tower. They park in the secure Avengers level of the private parking complex. Stiles taps the little device that Tony had given him that locks the bike down, ensuring that no one will be able to steal it unless they want a nice little zap for their efforts. It switches on with a quiet little crackle and he tugs his helmet off. 

Steve’s already removed his, hair a little messy and cheeks flushed from exhilaration, and he grins as he tugs on Stiles’s jacket, pulling him into a slow, deep kiss. Stiles grins, tugging gently on Steve’s bottom lip with his teeth, savouring the little breathless grunt it elicits before he pulls back.

“Steve Rogers,” he says. “Do you have a kink?”

Steve laughs, hands sliding down to Stiles’s hips. He can’t feel the warmth of Steve’s hands through the material of his clothes, but he can feel the strength as his fingers flex slightly, pulling Stiles tight against Steve’s body, and Stiles is certain that he’ll never not get hard instantly whenever Steve displays some of his raw strength.

Steve peppers kisses along Stiles’s jaw, pausing to scrape his teeth gently at his earlobe before murmuring, “I want to bend you over that motorcycle.”

A shiver slides down Stiles’s spine. Arousal drips like syrup through him, hot and slick, but he reluctantly pulls away, all too aware of the cameras down here.

“Bedroom,” he says impatiently.

Judging by the way Steve’s arms lock around his waist as he walks Stiles backwards to the elevator, kissing him hard the whole time, Steve wholeheartedly agrees.

***

He ends up roping both Lydia and Allison into shopping for appropriate formal wear.

He has two suits, one he already owned and a SHIELD issue suit that’s simple, black and bland, suitable for the more bureaucratic side of the job. But neither of them are formal enough for a black tie event.

Lydia is as passionate about fashion as she is about mathematics, science and languages. She’s pretty much brilliant at everything and if she wanted to, she could probably build her own business empire, revolutionize the mathematical field, _and_ start her own fashion line without breaking a sweat. She’d agreed to help him find a tux suitable for the event, since his own knowledge of fashion is pretty abysmal on a good day, and since Allison is attending the gala as well – as Natasha and Bucky’s plus one – they’d arranged to go in one trip so Lydia can dress shop with Allison at the same time.

When Stiles had met her in the foyer of the tower, Lydia had been chatting away with Pepper. He doesn’t know when they started being so friendly, but it makes sense. The two of them could probably take over the world together if they wanted to.

Stiles had imagined a trip to the mall, so he’s a little perturbed when Lydia takes them to an independent tailors instead. It looks fancy and expensive and he hesitates on the sidewalk, giving the door a dubious look.

“I don’t know if I can afford a tux from here,” he hedges.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen that boy toy you’ve been riding around the last few days. How much did _that_ cost you?”

“I saved up for that,” he replies. 

She taps her shoe against the sidewalk. Despite the dreary winter weather, she’s wearing dainty blue suede heels with multiple delicate straps and buttons. The impatient click of her shoe on the ground is annoyingly effective; despite her height, Lydia can be intimidating when she puts her mind to it.

“SHIELD surely has an administrative department that covers the bill for any expenses needed for a mission,” she points out.

“Well, yeah, but this isn’t a mission.”

“It’s an Avengers event. Just get Stark to sign off to say you’re attending as security and tell SHIELD they’ll need to cover the bill for the tuxedo.” 

“What?” he laughs slightly. “Lydia, I can’t do that.”

She switches tactics, smiling slightly. “Don’t you want to look good for Steve?”

Sometimes, Lydia reminds him a little of Natasha. She’s good at subtle manipulation, calculating just how to bend someone to her will without them even noticing, all with a sweet smile. And Lydia hasn’t ever had formal training; god help the world if she ever decided to try out espionage.

Predictably, Stiles immediately relents. “We’re not gonna be here long, right? It’s just a tux.”

“Oh, honey,” Lydia says, shaking her head slightly, and turns on her heel to push open the door to the tailor shop.

Stiles looks at Allison for help and she grins, eyes sparkling with humor as she follows Lydia. 

“Oh, _honey_ ,” she repeats, winking at him over her shoulder.

“I should have asked Scott to help instead,” Stiles mutters as the door clatters shut behind them.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Scott would have worn orange and blue together to senior homecoming if I hadn’t stepped in to save Allison’s dignity.”

She has a point. Stiles has plans to meet Scott later, hoping to spend a couple of hours with him, maybe order in a pizza and play video games. He’s trying to put more effort into spending time with Scott, despite how busy he is with SHIELD.

There’s a man behind the counter, in his sixties, with neatly trimmed grey hair and piercing blue eyes behind his wiry glasses, wearing a sensible waistcoat over his shirt and pants. He looks over his glasses at the three of them.

“Mr Stilinski, I presume,” he says. His accent is faint and European – Swedish, Stiles is pretty sure, recognizing it from his language studies. At the surprise on Stiles’s face the man smiles slightly. “Ms Potts called an hour ago.”

Stiles eyes Lydia who just smiles serenely back. He shakes his head slightly and steps forward, shaking the man’s hand. 

“Erik Holmstrom,” he says, his handshake firm, skin cool against Stiles’s. “Come.” 

Stiles obediently follows him further into the depths of the store. From the street, the building had looked squat and narrow, but it’s longer than he’d anticipated, extending far enough back that he feels a little overwhelmed by the sheer volume of tuxedos on display.

“Do you need measurements?” Erik asks.

Lydia shakes her head. “Not enough time,” she says with obvious disappointment. “If _someone_ ,” she gives Stiles a pointed look, “had asked for my help straight away, we would’ve had time to have him measured up properly. But off the rack will have to do for now.”

“What’s wrong with off the rack?” Stiles protests. “All of my clothes are off the rack.”

One eyebrow arches pointedly, which, fine, he _is_ currently wearing the plaid shirt with the hole in the elbow, but it’s at least hidden underneath his jacket. Lydia shakes her head slightly and turns to Allison.

“Thank god you finally got him into some leather,” she says. 

Allison smiles. “It was about time.”

She’s wearing leather, too, a sleek jacket that’s cropped to ride the top of her jeans. Lydia’s dressed a little more suitably for the cold weather in a pea coat that Stiles is starting to envy a little bit, despite the heaters spilling warm air into the narrow store.

A tuxedo catches his eyes; it’s royal blue, velvet with a pattern pressed into it that gleams under the store’s lights. Stiles reaches towards it but Lydia shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “You can’t pull that off.”

He points to a deep burgundy tux. “What about that?”

She considers. “Maybe.”

Within ten minutes, he has a carefully stacked pile of tuxedos in his arms. He eyes them dubiously but agrees to try them all on, since Lydia seems pretty serious about finding the perfect one. 

A couple of them are a different color – navy or charcoal, plus the burgundy one – or have a subtle pattern, or are made of a different fabric, such as supple velvet or silk, but most of them are the same sharp black. They all look identical to him, so he’s not really sure why he has to try _all_ of them on, but apparently, there’s enough subtle difference to them that it’s important.

He likes the burgundy one, but Lydia vetoes it. 

“You are _made_ for classic black,” she insists. “It looks good on you.” She tweaks the lapels of the jacket he’s wearing. “Trust me. It’s great on your skin tone and with that jawline…you look good enough to eat.” 

Stiles snorts, turning to look in the mirror. He _does_ look pretty sharp. The tuxedo is a rich, deep black and slim fitting, sleek and crisp. His frame is still pretty lean, but less skinny that it used to be thanks to all of his training, and it the jacket is snug on his shoulders and trim at his waist, flattering him. He tries to smooth his hair to make it look neat and Lydia hums a disapproving sound, ruffling it back so it’s slightly messy again.

“Trust me,” she repeats.

Stiles adjusts the black bow tie he’s wearing. “I feel like James Bond.”

“Oh, please,” Lydia says, but she’s smiling. “Don’t let this go to your head, but your butt looks good. Steve will want to lick you all over.”

Erik heaves a sigh from where he’s waiting for them to make a decision but Lydia just winks at Stiles, unrepentant. He laughs, smoothing his hands over the jacket. The lapels are velvet, adding a nice textural element to the tux, and he _does_ feel like the archetypal spy. 

If he’s honest, he prefers his SHIELD uniform, with its protective armor and space for weapons, but if he has to wear a monkey suit for the gala…well, he’s happy to wear _this_ monkey suit.

Erik moves forward, making a couple of adjustments, marking the fit changes with pins. The pants are slim fitting but Stiles doesn’t want them too narrow; he needs room to strap a weapon to his calf. The gala will have heavy security, but he’s not willing to go in completely unarmed. 

“You can collect Thursday afternoon,” Erik says. 

“That soon?” Stiles asks, surprised.

“Miss Martin was clear on it being urgent.”

Stiles grins at Lydia’s satisfied smile. “Huh. Okay, thanks.” 

He carefully removes the tuxedo, wary of the pins, and he feels a little more like himself when he’s back in his own clothes. He follows Erik back to the counter, watching him write up an invoice. When it’s slipped towards him, he almost chokes slightly at the cost, but hands his card over.

He makes his appointment to pick the tuxedo up and follows Lydia and Allison out of the store.

“Thanks,” he says, genuinely grateful. “Good luck with the dress shopping.”

Lydia tilts her head. “I thought you were coming with us.”

“I’m probably not your best bet for fashion advice.” 

“No, but it’s been a while since we last hung out,” Lydia says softly. She’s visibly a little disappointed and it warms Stiles’s heart.

“Okay,” he agrees, because he’s never minded a bit of clothes shopping, even if it doesn’t exactly interest him. It’ll be nice to spend time with Lydia.

The store Lydia takes them to is even fancier than the tailor shop. The interior is minimalistic and well lit, with modern art on the walls and an assistant with perfectly curled blonde hair and heels tall and spiky enough to double as a weapon. She recognizes Lydia, greets her with a hug and Stiles and Allison with a warm, friendly smile, offering actual glasses of champagne, and Stiles will never wrap his head around the culture of high-end fashion, but he’s more than happy to enjoy the booze since he’s not driving.

He mostly sits and fiddles on his phone as Lydia and Allison flick through dresses, discussing colors and options and suitability. Eventually, Lydia settles on the couch next to him, crossing her legs primly as Allison slips into the changing room to try on the first gown.

“So,” she says. “Please tell me you’re not going on a mission between now and Saturday.”

Stiles glances at her. “Not that I’m aware of. Why?”

“You have an annoying tendency to come back with bruises. That really isn’t a good look for a gala.”

He laughs. “I’ll do my best to not mess up my pretty face.”

She pats his knee, fond, lips curving into a warm, open smile. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, shifting to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “I’ve missed you too. All of you.”

“Even Jackson?” she teases.

“Let’s not go that far,” he replies dryly. “He’s in London at the moment, right?”

She nods. “He asks how you are sometimes. He’s proud of you.”

“That’s…surprisingly nice of him.”

“He can be sweet when he’s not thinking too hard about it,” she agrees.

Lydia and Jackson had been similar in that way back in high school, with their ability to be cool and dismissive, or downright cruel if it suited them, hiding their intelligence, warmth and decency behind a carefully cultivated mask. It’s one of the many reasons why their relationship had crashed and burned, but the break up and distance had been good for them. They’ve both matured and moved past that defensive callousness. 

In their sophomore year of high school, if Lydia had ever once given him a second glance, Stiles could very easily have fallen in love with the person she was back then. But he wouldn’t have _liked_ her. 

He loves the real Lydia, the one he knows now. He appreciates the friendship they have, the kind that isn’t affected by a few weeks of not hanging out. They both have busy lives, but it’s never a problem for them.

The gowns Allison tries on range in different colors and shades, materials and designs, but she looks beautiful in all of them, so Stiles probably isn’t much help, since he gives a thumbs up to every single dress. Lydia is a little more critical and, eventually, she and Allison narrow the choice down to a black gown and a champagne evening dress.

“The black,” Lydia says. 

It’s the one Allison’s currently wearing. It’s one shouldered, the strap made of some sheer fabric, and the bodice is all lace that trails down over one hip, merging into a long skirt with a slit on one side. She looks stunning in it and she does a little spin to check out all of the angles in the mirror.

“I think it’s my favorite, too,” she agrees.

“The slit,” Lydia says. “Ideal for fighting.”

Stiles blinks, because he hadn’t thought of that, but Allison grins and nods. Lydia’s right; the slit allows for better movement and access to a concealed weapon.  
She shouldn’t need to but, like Stiles, Allison isn’t willing to take any chances.

***

Stiles looks at his reflection, carefully adjusting his bow tie.

The alterations are spot on and the tuxedo is comfortable as well as flattering. He’d suggested a red bow tie, something to break up the deep black of the tuxedo and crisp white of the shirt, but Lydia had convinced him to stick with a classic black one and he has to admit, she’s right; the monochrome scheme works for him. He leaves his hair a little messy.

There’s a strap around his calf, concealed underneath the leg of his pants without forfeiting the slim design of the tux, and he tucks a knife into it. He wishes he could bring his ICER, but even with its sleek, small design, the holster would be too obvious under his jacket; the knife is a good compromise, providing a sense of security. 

Steve’s waiting for him in the foyer – Stiles is admittedly running a little late; his meeting with Coulson had run over and he’d had to sprint straight up to the suite to take a quick shower and get ready – and Stiles’s mouth goes dry the second he sees him.

He’s seen Steve in suits before, in tuxedos, in dress uniform. He usually prefers Steve when he’s dressed down, when he’s comfortable and relaxed and just _Steve_ , and he loves Steve in his Captain America uniform, but holy _fuck_ does he look good right now. His tuxedo is sleek, a rich color a few shades darker than royal blue, gorgeous but not ostentatious, and the lapels are a deeper navy color. His shirt is a crisp white, matching the handkerchief that’s neatly folded in the breast pocket, and he’s wearing a black bow tie, his hair neat and looking so soft that Stiles’s hands twitch with the temptation to run his hands through it.

“You,” he says. “Are unfairly attractive.”

Steve smiles, eyes crinkling slightly. “I could say the same about you.”

Stiles grins back, leaning in to press a slow, soft kiss to Steve’s lips. If he’s honest, he just wants to drag him back upstairs and peel him out of his tuxedo, but the gala is important to Steve, so he resists the urge. Still, he can’t help but pepper little nipping kisses along his jaw, breathing in the clean, mouth-watering scent of Steve’s soap. 

Steve tips his head to capture Stiles’s mouth again, kissing him before pulling back. There’s a limo waiting and Happy climbs out to grab the door for them. Stiles has ridden in the limo a couple of times before, when accompanying Steve and the team to PR events, and it still feels kinda weird, but he’s getting used to it.

The rest of the team are already there. Tony has a drink in his hand, already easing into that relaxed, charming persona, the one that can flirt and flatter and schmooze all night long to get the donations rolling in and establish important contacts – both for SI and for the Avengers – and he makes it look so effortless, sliding on that mask as if it’s as natural to him as breathing. His suit is sleek black velvet, which should look ridiculous, but somehow he pulls it off, and while his bowtie is a simple, classic black, his cufflinks are Iron Man red and gold. Next to him, Pepper looks stunning in a halter-neck silver gown, her hair pinned back in a high ponytail, and her gaze is on the phone in her hands but she does glance up and offer a brief warm smile in greeting. 

Bruce is equally distracted by his own phone, fiddling slightly with his bowtie as he frowns at whatever it is he’s working on, thumb tapping rapidly on the glass screen. Clint, like Stiles, is wearing a classic black tux, but his is a little less tailored, less slim around the waist, and Stiles is willing to bet he’s got a holster hiding underneath his jacket. 

Bucky’s tuxedo is another classic black and white and he’s tied his hair back in a neat topknot; he’s wearing a black leather glove to conceal his metal hand, which is settled on Natasha’s knee. Natasha is almost painfully beautiful to look at, in a floor length satin dress with thin straps, cut tastefully low in the front with a deep V at the back, a blue so dark that it shines like an oil spill, contrasting with her pale complexion and short red hair.

Allison is already at the gala. She, Bucky and Natasha have chosen not to go public with their relationship; not because they don’t _want_ to, but so Allison can maintain some privacy and the ability to go undercover with SHIELD. The press won’t be inside the gala itself and Allison is very good at going unnoticed, so her presence at the event shouldn’t be a problem.

The sheer amount of paparazzi waiting outside the building is unnerving. Stiles isn’t good at this part of the whole thing and neither is Steve. Planned press conferences are one thing, where Steve has a script he can stick to and can decline certain questions, but standing and posing like they’re on a red carpet, like they’re _celebrities_ (which, Stiles supposes, Steve _is_ ), is just weird. 

Tony is silently helpful and considerate in that regard, though. He’s been doing this since he was just a teenager, after all; he’s used to the limelight and the flashing cameras and shouting paparazzi. He poses with Pepper, offers charming grins and arrogant one-liners that the press just eat up. Between him and Thor, who is equally comfortable with taking the attention, booming voice rousing laughter from the crowd as he stands still for picture after picture, Steve and Stiles are able to slip away, only having to pause for a couple of pictures to be polite. Bucky, Natasha, Clint and Bruce are right on their heels; none of them are comfortable with the cameras and attention, either.

The ballroom is huge and decadent, with rich wooden floors, ornate walls and fancy art; crystal chandeliers cast a glittering hue over everything, and the place is full of touches of gold and marble and vibrant colors. It’s crammed with people, too, some sat at the circular tables, some by the bar that takes up one whole side of the room, some dancing to the tasteful music filling the space, played perfectly by a live band, and others flitting from one group of people to the other, socializing and schmoozing and networking with practised, slick ease. 

Stiles takes it all in, feeling a little out of his depth. A woman in a neat uniform passes, a tray of champagne flutes held expertly aloft in her hand, and Stiles plucks one off, taking a gulp of it. It’s crisp and tart, fizzing in the back of his throat, clearly expensive and gone in a single swallow. 

Steve glances at him with a wry smile. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Reminds me of back in the day, when I was selling war bonds.”

Stiles blinks at him. “This…is like the total opposite end of the spectrum, Steve.”

“It’s different,” he acknowledges. “But it’s a charade all the same. Still a game of playing the performing monkey for a good cause.”

Stiles frowns slightly and reaches out, giving Steve’s hand a careful, gentle squeeze. “Let Tony be the performing monkey tonight. Come dance with me.”

Steve opens his mouth to reply, then closes it and offers a wry smile when a man in an expensive tuxedo with a hideous moustache approaches, smarmy expression already in place as he prepares to schmooze Captain America. Steve offers him a polite smile and a handshake in response, easing into the charade with less comfort than Tony but just as much practised grace.

A hand finds Stiles’s elbow. “You look lost.”

Stiles turns, grinning at Allison. “I _feel_ it.”

She looks breathtaking in her gown; she’s pinned her curls back and painted her lips a soft red. In her high heels, she’s almost as tall as Stiles, and she looks a lot more at ease in this environment than she probably feels.

“Think of it as being undercover,” she suggests. “It helps.”

Stiles smiles. “Have you seen Bucky and Nat yet?”

A sly little smile settles on her lips. “Yes.”

He laughs, resting his hand briefly over the one she has on his elbow. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Her brown eyes soften and her smile widens to show off her dimples. “Come dance with me?”

He used to be a terrible dancer, all clumsy, boxy movements and two left feet, but he’s a lot better thanks to practise. It’s a useful skill to have for undercover operations, after all, and the grace needed for fighting translates nicely over to dancing, making it easier to learn.

They mostly go unnoticed as they twirl around the dancefloor. After all, the focus is on the Avengers, and there’s plenty of other celebrities in attendance. Stiles recognizes Reed and Susan Richards, locked in their own graceful dance. There’s movie stars and musicians and models, all there to support the various causes and offer donations, standing shoulder to shoulder with socialites, military connections clearly interested in approaching the Avengers, and anyone else who could afford a ticket to the event. 

Stiles takes it all in as they glide and spin and dip, automatically checking for potential security threats, and he knows Allison is doing the same. 

“Mind if I cut in?”

Stiles glances at Bucky and grins, stepping back. “Not at all.”

Allison offers Stiles a little wink as she and Bucky step elegantly into their own dance, his hand curled possessively over her waist, and Stiles smiles back before leaving the dancefloor. He scans the crowd for Steve but can’t see him, so he makes his way to the bar instead.

Bruce is sat on one of the stools, shoulders hunched slightly. He’s very good at going unnoticed if he wants to be, which is probably useful for events like this, where some people might be tactless enough to chase him for details on the Hulk. Stiles eases onto the empty stool next to him and orders a drink. 

“Having fun?” he asks cheerfully. 

Bruce gives him a dry smile. “The time of my life,” he replies. “You?”

“It’s not so bad. People don’t seem to recognize me unless I’m with Steve. They’ve only got eyes for the superheroes, after all.” 

“Unfortunately,” Bruce agrees. 

Stiles sips his drink, gaze sweeping over the room once more. He spots Steve, looking a little cornered by a group of women, his expression flustered, but before Stiles can get to his feet, Pepper comes to Steve’s rescue with a polite but firm charm, guiding him away. 

Soon enough, it’s time for everyone to take their seats. Tony goes on stage and gives a speech that’s humorous and a little over the top, but also incredibly genuine; this isn’t some PR event for him, but something he actually gives a damn about. There’s an auction, raising funds for charities, and donations start rolling in after that.

The three course dinner is exquisite, because of course it is, and, gradually, Stiles starts to relax. It’s nice, actually, to just spend time with the team. It’s not as comfortable or fun as the rare occasions where they all get to just chill and watch a movie or compete at video games, but it’s still pretty good. 

After, Steve takes Stiles’s hand, leading him onto the dancefloor. There’s a brief, awkward moment where they both try to lead before Stiles laughs and shifts his hands, letting Steve take the lead. 

Steve’s a good dancer and Stiles feels warm and happy and fond. He tucks in closer, leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder, and just loses himself to the smell of Steve’s soap and the sensation of smooth fabric under his cheek. Steve’s hand is broad and firm on his hip as they move and when Stiles slides his hand to Steve’s back, he can feel the play of muscles as he controls their glide across the dancefloor. 

They dance for a while, but it still feels too soon when they’re interrupted by Pepper. 

“Sorry,” she says. “But there’s a gentleman who was hoping to speak to you, Steve.”

Steve nods, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to Stiles’s jaw before following Pepper. Stiles considers dancing with someone else but decides instead to make his way over to the large windows.

They’re thirty floors up, offering a decent view of the city, buildings lit up like twinkling stars in the night. Stiles tucks his hands into his pockets as he gazes out into the darkness, letting it relax him as the sound of music and laughter washes into the background.

A hand on the small of his back makes him jump. He tenses slightly as he turns, but instantly knows the woman that’s latched onto him isn’t a threat. She’s beautiful, with eyes the color of champagne and pale blonde hair, and there’s a drink in her hand as she looks him over, a slow, confident smile sliding onto her face.

“Well,” she drawls. “You look good enough to eat.”

Stiles laughs, caught off guard by the blatant pick-up line, and she grins back, eyes dancing with humor. He starts to gently move away, opening his mouth to let her down, but her fingers just slide smoothly to his wrist instead.

“Come,” she says. “Have a drink with me.”

“Thanks, but, uh...”

She seems to find his awkward fluster cute and leans in, lips brushing his ear as she murmurs, “Or we could just skip that part and get out of here.”

Stiles chokes slightly, amused at her cheerful flirting but also feeling completely out of his depth. He casts a quick, slightly panicked look around and his gaze catches Natasha’s. She raises an eyebrow at the look on his face but rolls her eyes and extracts herself from where she’d been dancing with Clint, making her way towards them to rescue Stiles. He knows for a fact that she’ll never let him live it down, but he also knows that if anyone can save him from this woman’s clutches, it’s Natasha.

She’s halfway across the space between them when Stiles registers the quiet, tinkling sound of breaking glass, barely audible over the music and laughter.

Automatically, his head jerks towards the window to his left, staring in disbelief at the hole in the glass, little cracks splintering out from it in a delicate web. 

The pain hits him a second later.

It’s a sharp burn near his hip and he presses a hand over it automatically, but he knows he hasn’t been shot, not properly; there’s a tear in his jacket and the wound hurts, sure, but it doesn’t feel that bad. The bullet had grazed him. There’s a little bit of blood but he’s had a hell of a lot worse.

He meets Natasha’s gaze. Her eyes are wide, startled, but then her expression cools as she automatically starts to react, breaking into a run towards him. 

The bullet doesn’t seem to have hit anyone else; the music is still playing and people are still laughing and dancing, completely unaware that something is wrong. 

Stiles’s mind snaps into sudden, sharp clarity. He exhales, reaching out to grab the woman next to him by her forearms. She’s still blinking at the hole in the window, dumbstruck for a second before reality catches up to her, and then she’s screaming, sharp and piercing. 

_That_ draws the attention of the guests around them. Stiles pushes her back several steps, away from the window, until they’re tucked against the wall, out of sight of the sniper. 

“Stay here,” he says.

She’s still screaming, eyes wild with panic, and he squeezes her hands gently but firmly until she manages to focus on him. 

“ _Stay here_ ,” he repeats. “Stay down and _don’t_ go near the windows. Do you understand me?”

Fear cuts across her face but she manages to keep hold of some rationality and she nods once, pressing back into the wall, away from the windows.

Natasha reaches them, grabbing his elbow. She turns, catches Bucky’s gaze, and like a well-oiled machine, the team comes together; Bucky gestures to Tony, who finds Steve, and soon, the room is silent and Tony’s voice bellows out.

“Everybody _down_!”

There’s a loud, panicked clamour, shouts and screams and glasses smashing as people make a mad dash for the doors. Others duck away from the windows to take cover under tables or behind the safety of the stage. 

It’s not ideal, but there aren’t any more shots, too much activity going on for a sniper to get a clear shot. But people have hit the floor and found cover, which is better than nothing; their priority is ensuring that the civilians don’t get hurt.

“Are you hit?” Natasha demands.

Stiles shakes his head quickly. “Bullet grazed me, I’m fine.”

She’s wearing high heels but they come off in an instant, discarded by the wall so she can fight better, and Bucky’s there a second later. Wordlessly, he grips the material of her dress with his metal hand and rips until there’s a tear going up each side, allowing her better movement. 

“Clint,” Steve’s voice rings out. “Find the sniper.”

“Already on it, Cap,” he calls back, ducking low as he heads for the door.

An explosion goes off before he can reach it.

It’s small, contained behind the bar, bottles and glasses smashing, and instantly more screams fill the room, people scrabbling to get away, panicked and wild. 

“Thor, buddy, get the civilians _out_ of here,” Tony shouts. “Priority is getting them to safety.”

Thor gives a single nod and takes charge, his voice loud and commanding but controlled, and it works, gaining the focus of the panicked crowd. 

A window shatters and a woman cries out as she clutches at her arm. The bullet had grazed her, scoring her flesh and spilling blood, before slamming into the wall behind her.

“We need to draw the line of fire away from civilians,” Stiles says.

Natasha nods and darts forward. She’s fast and can contort her body into seemingly gravity-defying flips and twists, but she can’t dodge _bullets_ , no matter how good she is. He knows what she wants him to do without her needing to say it and starts running in the opposite direction, right in front of the other window. If they can try and distract the sniper, draw their line of fire, then it gives Thor the chance to get the civilians out without anyone else getting hurt.

The window next to Stiles shatters and he flinches, but the bullet never hits him. There’s an arm in front of him, protecting his head, and it takes him a second to realize that it’s Bucky, that he’d moved fast enough to deflect the bullet with his metal arm before it could strike Stiles’s temple.

“Holy shit,” Stiles says breathlessly, then, “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. His face is fixed into cold blankness, eyes like chips of ice, body braced for battle. 

A second blast goes off, several feet to their right, and it throws them into the air. Bucky twists, carefully protecting Stiles’s body with his own as they hit the ground and roll, the air knocked out of Stiles’s lungs at the impact. 

He doesn’t know what the bombs are, doesn’t know what the technology is, but the explosions are contained, dangerous but not devastating; there’s no fire or shrapnel, but instead a blast of energy, a concussive force that feels like being hit by a car.

Bucky’s already back on his feet, running towards Natasha, and Stiles realizes why there isn’t any more bullets slicing through the air. Susan Richards is stood in the centre of the room, expression tense with concentration as she projects a force field that blankets over the windows, the bullets unable to pierce through the psionic energy. 

“Honey,” she calls, voice taut. 

“On it!” Reed shouts, sliding underneath the force field. 

He throws a punch, arm stretching and _God_ , that is so gross, but his fist shatters the other window and keeps extending. A second later, there’s a distant yell that’s quickly cut off. The arm snaps back, returning to normal, and he offers Tony a smug grin.

“I’ve taken care of the sniper,” he says.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Think you could stop swinging it around and help Thor?”

Before Reed can snipe back, he suddenly jerks, hand going to his neck. A second later, his eyes roll back and he crumples to the floor. 

Stiles spins, catching sight of one of the waiters. There’s a dart gun in his hands and Tony’s already moving towards him, but Allison is faster. She launches herself into a kick that embeds the heel of one strappy black sandal into his shoulder; the gun hits the floor and he shouts in pain as he lands right next to it.

Allison pulls a face at the blood on her shoe and quickly removes both of them, leaving her barefoot. She meets Stiles’s gaze and offers a slight grin and a shrug. “High heels make good weapons sometimes.”

A startled laugh rattles in his throat, but it dies a second later when Steve shouts a warning from his position near the doors, herding people out of the room with Thor. Three more of the staff – two waitresses and the bartender – have pulled weapons and there are hostiles pushing through the doors, shoving civilians aside to gain access to the ballroom. They’re geared up in black tactical gear and armed to the teeth. 

“Son of a bitch,” Bucky seethes, teeth clenched.

There’s still civilians in the room. The sniper has been taken care of and Susan’s now crouched next to Reed, ready to protect him while he’s unconscious and help fight, but the armed men just keep on coming, swarming into the room, and it’s hard to keep track when the blasts keep going off, disorientating Stiles and flinging debris and glass through the air. 

Allison hand snatches a knife from the strap around her thigh and she lets it fly; it sinks into the throat of one of the hostiles that had been aiming a gun at Natasha. Across the room, Natasha spares her a brief glance before throwing herself at two more men, body twisting and thighs locking around them to bring them both to the floor. There’s gleaming metal tucked into a sheath on each of her own legs and she palms the knives as she gets back to her feet.

Thor manages to get the rest of the people near the door out and into the relative safety of the stairwell. The event security have finally got their thumbs out of their asses and rally around to keep the swarm of people safe, leaving the ballroom itself to the Avengers to deal with, and Thor returns, expression dark.

If there’s one thing Thor cannot abide, it’s innocent people being nothing more than collateral damage to the bad guys.

Tony does something with his watch, pulling a gauntlet over his hand, and he aims a repulsor blast at one of the armed goons, twisting to kick another one that tries to sneak up on him. Steve is fighting six at once, using a tray as a makeshift shield as he flips and kicks and punches, bringing the hostiles down with brutal force.

“They’re enhanced,” he shouts.

Stiles has never been with the team when they’ve come together like this. He’s seen how well they work together in training, moving as one, supporting each other’s strengths and covering weakness to create a formidable group force, but he’s never been a part of it. 

Still, somehow, it works. He sees Clint, gun in his hands, shoot two guys down, but there’s another sneaking up on him. Stiles runs forward and Clint ducks forward automatically so Stiles can roll over his back, foot slamming into the hostile’s chest. They end up back to back to fight, working with each other just as smoothly as they do when they team up against Natasha or Bucky during training. 

Thor doesn’t have Mjolnir, but he seems to be doing just fine without it; he throws one guy into a cluster of others and they all scatter across the floor, groaning in pain, bones broken from the force. 

Natasha is moving _fast_ , bringing hostiles down with her usual sharp efficiency, throwing elbows and legs and headbutting when she’s close enough, throwing knives when she’s not. Allison is holding her own just as easily. She launches herself onto one guy, legs locking around his shoulders, and then flips into a back handspring that slams him into the ground; she tucks and rolls and comes up in a crouch, letting two knives fly, both of them hitting home, sinking through the weak spots of tac gear to incapacitate two more men. 

Bucky fights with his usual brutal force, snapping necks and spines, his arm just as vicious a weapon as the gun in his flesh hand, offering Steve and Thor back up against a swarm of hostiles.

There’s three crowding in on Stiles. He twists slightly and Clint picks up on what he’s doing, moving with him so he can aim over Stiles’s shoulder, three precise shots bringing the three hostiles down. At the same time, Stiles snatches the knife he knows is tucked into a sheath at Clint’s waist and flings it, cutting down the man trying to take advantage of Clint’s distraction.

Tony’s got four on him; they haven’t got guns, but metal gleams as they come at him with knives. He knocks one out with a sonic pulse, but the other three keep forcing forwards.  
Stiles sprints across the room, doing a speed vault across a table; as soon as he lands, he throws himself into a dive roll, sliding the knife free from the strap around his calf as he does so. He throws it as soon as he’s back on his feet and it pierces the head armor of one of the men; he reels back, helpfully knocking one of the other guys off balance as he hits the floor, dead.

Tony turns, arm with the gauntlet snapping out to use the repulsor on a hostile, and Stiles drops to his knees and bends his back, sliding underneath Tony’s arm and out of harm’s way from the gauntlet. The repulsor blast hits its target and Stiles surges to his feet as the fourth man comes towards them with a knife; he brings his leg up, curling it around the guy’s arm, and then drops, the momentum of his weight slamming down forcing the man’s bone upwards, brutally snapping it. He gives a raw scream and drops to his knees as Stiles flips back to his feet, driving his knee forward to knock the guy out.

He picks up the knife the man had dropped and is bending to retrieve his own from the skull of the other guy when he hears the skid of boots on the floor, _too close_.

He starts to twist, but Tony has his back, aiming a repulsor blast at the man right behind Stiles. It sends him reeling and Stiles ducks so the guy flies over his head; he hits the floor and goes still.

“Thanks,” he says, getting to his feet.

“I’ve got this,” Tony replies with a nod. “Find Banner.”

And.

Oh.

_Shit_.

Bruce.

The Hulk hasn’t made an appearance, which is good, but a quick sweep of the room shows no sign of Bruce, which is _not_ so good.

“Got it,” he agrees, ducking so Tony can take out another hostile, and then he sprints towards the bar.

He’s stalled by a cluster of men. Guns swivel towards him and Stiles freezes, mind spinning as he tries to figure out how to get out of this, but then he catches Steve’s gaze as he throws the tray in his hand. It arcs through the air, slamming through one man with enough force that he instantly crumples, and Stiles braces himself as he catches it. He skids back slightly, a dull throb spiking through his arms at the impact, but he flips the tray just in time to shield himself, the darts fired at him hitting silver instead of his flesh.

Steve barrels into the group of men and Stiles throws himself into the fray to help, twisting out of the way of Steve’s side kick so it hits its intended target and snagging the man behind Steve into a throw, slamming him to the floor. Together, they take out half of them, and Stiles knows Steve can handle the rest.

A cry sounds over the crack of another energy blast. Stiles turns, heart twisting in his chest when he sees Allison’s been pinned. She’s already bringing her leg up to throw the guy off, but there’s two more already sprinting towards her. 

Stiles runs, jumping onto the table closest to Allison, and once he reaches the edge he throws his body into a corkscrew, landing on both men. The three of them tumble to the ground and he takes advantage of their split second of distraction, cracking skulls into the ground hard enough to knock them out.

He turns and Allison is on her feet, the man who had pinned her on the ground, but there’s two behind her. She catches the look on Stiles’s face and her body arcs into a backflip, legs splitting to kick each guy in the face, and she tucks into a roll, stopping in a crouch facing them, a knife in her hand. She throws it and Stiles ducks automatically; the blade embeds itself into the chest of a guy sneaking up behind him.

Most of the hostiles are going for the ‘baseline’ humans in the group, specifically Allison, which is…kind of hilarious, actually, because Allison is a hell of a lot deadlier than Stiles. The bloody, broken bodies littered around her is proof of that.

But they just keep _coming_. The sheer scale of the attack has cold, furious panic seizing Stiles by the throat. It’s Viper, it has to be, but it’s a calculated plan, an _effective_ one, organizing a huge amount of members and pumping them full of Kaplow’s strength serum before sending them in after the Avengers. More than that, they’d thought to position a sniper, they’d infiltrated the event staff despite Stark’s security checks, and they’d known to use the civilians as a distraction for the event’s bodyguards.

Viper just slammed their threat level straight up to red. 

Natasha does a front handspring over a table, kicking down one guy as she lands on her feet, and the three of them crowd together, covering each other as they take care of the surge of men spilling through the door. 

Another blast goes off, knocking Bucky off his feet, but he twists in the air, spine contorting in a way that should be impossible for a human, and he lands on his feet, two stolen dart guns in his hands, firing off shots. 

Stiles lets his stolen knife fly, taking out one of the guys trying to box Bucky in, but he has the other one handled.

There’s a brief lull and Stiles uses it to spring towards the bar. Something hits the floor near him, clattering as it bounces until it hits his foot. He skids slightly, looking down at it.

_Fuck_.

It’s a grenade.

Tony’s right next to him and Stiles starts to shout a warning even though he knows it’ll be useless; they’re both too close to escape the blast.

He’s cut off by the air snapping from his lungs at the force of a heavy body slamming into him, an arm locking around him tightly. He’s in the air in the next instant, feels wood and glass crunch underneath his body as he hits something, and then he’s on the floor just as a _boom_ thunders through the room and a wall of heat blasts them, spewing debris into the air.

But Stiles and Tony are both protected by the bar they’re suddenly tucked up safely behind.

Stiles blinks, ears ringing, disorientated. His gaze falls on Thor, his mind belatedly catching up.

Thor had grabbed them both and hauled them over the bar, saving them from the grenade.

“Holy shit,” he manages, breathless.

Thor’s hand grips Stiles’s shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

The adrenaline is like a storm inside Stiles, obliterating anything else he might feel. But he doesn’t think he’s hurt, beyond bruises and the shallow wound in his side. Tony’s bleeding where shrapnel hit his shoulder and there’s a cut at his eyebrow, but his eyes are clear and focused. 

“Good reflexes, Point Break,” he says, which his way of saying ‘thank you’.

Thor knows it, too, a brief smile splintering his sombre expression. 

“Tony?” Stiles says. “Your security fucking _sucks_.”

“Yeah,” Tony replies dryly. “There will be words, trust me.”

Stiles had dropped the knifes when Thor grabbed him, but he eyes the bottles behind the bar. Most of them were smashed by the first blast, leaving shards of glass and sticky liquid on the floor, but there are still some intact.

“Okay,” he says. “Tony, Thor, think you can provide a distraction?”

“Distractions are my specialty,” Tony answers. “What are you gonna do?”

There’s flames starting to flicker in the room, casting shadows across Tony’s face. The heat is intense, the choking smoke even worse, and they need to lock this shit down _now_.

Stiles offers a grin. “If they’re setting shit on fire, _I’m_ gonna set shit on fire.” 

Tony and Thor’s answering smiles are gleefully approving. Stiles grabs the bottles of liquor and rags from underneath the sink behind the bar. He stuffs the rags inside each bottle, a tail sticking out, and lights up the first one.

Tony stands, aiming repulsor blasts, drawing the attention of several hostiles and providing Stiles the distraction he needs to throw the first bottle. There’s screams and fire and shattering glass and Thor throws himself back over the bar and back into the fray as Stiles sets into a rhythm of lighting and throwing.

When Stiles is out of the makeshift Molotov’s, Tony slides across the top of the bar to fight, but Stiles pauses.

There’s a hatch behind the bar, presumably leading into a kitchen of some sort, or into the alcohol stock room. The metal door is down, but not locked; Stiles rolls it up with a sharp rattle and climbs through it, landing on his feet on the other side.

Harsh breathing instantly reaches his ears. 

Bruce is in one corner of the small room, huddled against the door to a cold storage room, eyes closed and teeth clenched as he breathes slow and deep, a guttural note to each rasping exhale that’s almost as worrying as the green flush to his skin.

“Bruce?” Stiles says hesitantly.

Bruce’s eyes snap open. “ _Stay back_.”

Stiles does as he’s told, scooting back and settling into a crouch, hands lifted to show he’s unarmed. Harmless. 

The fact that Bruce has managed to contain the Hulk, managed to stay in control despite the chaos storming just on the other side of a thin wall, is incredible. 

“Okay,” Stiles says carefully. He doesn’t soften his tone, knowing that it could come across as condescending which wouldn’t help matters, but he does keep his voice calm. “Bruce, we need to go. Please don’t freak out, but, uh, there’s grenades. We need to move.”

“The civilians?” Bruce bites out. 

“I think Thor and Steve managed to get them all out in the end, but I can’t be sure. It’s…there was too much going on, it was too disorientating for me to check.” 

“I can’t go out there.”

Stiles swallows. If Bruce Hulked out in close proximity to civilians, it would be a disaster. Not to mention if he accidentally struck one of the team. 

But they can’t stay here.

“There’s a back door, I think it’s for staff only. We can find a back exit or a fire escape, okay? But we need to move, Bruce. I’m sorry.”

Bruce takes a slow, careful breath. His skin is slowly fading back to normal, which is a good sign, and when he meets Stiles’s gaze properly, his eyes are calm and focused. He nods, carefully getting to his feet.

“Okay,” he agrees tiredly.

“There’s fire,” Stiles warns. “So, just, you know. Be aware of that. I don’t want the big guy being caught by surprise.”

Bruce’s mouth ticks up slightly, his smile dry. “Probably wouldn’t be good,” he agrees.

Stiles crawls back through the hatch, Bruce right behind him. Broken glass crunches underneath Stiles’s shoes, sticky liquor sucking at the soles as he ducks out from behind the bar. The rest of the team have the hostiles distracted and seem to be coming out on top, which is a relief. Stiles catches Steve’s eye and gestures to the door in question, receiving a quick nod in return.

“Okay,” Stiles says, grabbing one of the dart guns from the ground. “Let’s go.”

They almost make it.

They’re _right there_ , Stiles’s hand reaching for the handle to the door, when it all goes to shit. 

Stiles hears the crack of a gun, one with bullets instead of darts, and he’s turning and moving towards Bruce, but it’s too late. The bullet slams into Bruce’s shoulder.

“Bruce,” Stiles says carefully. “Bruce!”

The tear of fabric sends a shiver skidding down Stiles’s spine. He throws himself back just in time, tucking into back handspring and out of range of the Hulk as he practically _explodes_ into existence, furious roar blasting through the room. His back is to Stiles, muscles rippling, fists clenched. The wound is already healing but he’s mad, dear fucking _God_ is he mad, rage snarling between his teeth and shaking through his body as he takes a step towards the brawl still ripping through the room.

A shrill scream pierces the air and panic guts Stiles. 

It’s the woman who’d flirted with him earlier; she’d taken shelter behind one side of the stage but she’s scrambling back now, screaming at the sight of the Hulk, and the terrified, raw sound snatches the Hulk’s attention almost as effectively as the bullet had. 

He spins towards her, furious gaze pinning her to the spot.

“Fuck.” And then Stiles says it again, snaps the word between his teeth, because an idea flies through his head and he _really_ doesn’t like it, but he can’t take the risk of the Hulk accidentally harming a civilian in his anger, he just _can’t_.

So he reaches behind him, yanks the door open, and lifts the dart gun without taking his gaze off the Hulk’s back.

And then he fires.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: canon-typical violence, description of injuries, blood.

Three rapid shots, the darts sinking into green flesh, but the tranquilizer inside them is useless against the Hulk. He spins, mouth opening in an enraged roar, and Stiles throws the gun to the side and launches himself through the door a split second before the Hulk starts to run at him.

He ends up in a private stairwell. He grabs the banister and vaults over the side, falling for a second before landing at the top of the stairs the level below, tucking into a shoulder roll to save his legs from the impact. 

He’d jumped just in time; Hulk smashes through the door and wall, snarls spitting between his teeth, and his fist crunches through the banister right where Stiles had been just a second before.

Stiles jumps down the set of stairs, vaults over the side of the next flight, trying to stay ahead. He has the advantage of how narrow the stairwell is, but it won’t help him for long. The Hulk is determined, strong enough to simply break through walls and banisters, forcing his way through to get to Stiles.

Stiles’s mind is flying even as he keeps running and vaulting in an adrenaline fuelled mix of parkour and _running for his damn life_. He needs to keep The Hulk away from civilians, which had worked when he’d pissed him off enough to turn his rage on Stiles, but now he doesn’t know what to do when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He can’t lead the Hulk out into the city. Too many people about and Stiles is a lot more vulnerable out there; Hulk will be on him in a _second_ , smashing him into paste on the ground.

He doesn’t get to make a decision, because he doesn’t make it to the bottom of the stairs.

He feels and hears how close Hulk is, a wall of hot breath against his back, angry snarls echoing in the stairwell. He twists slightly, sees a huge fist snapping towards him, and throws himself back into thin air, bringing his arms up in front of his face as if that might actually do something to protect him. There’s a flash of movement behind Hulk, Tony vaulting over ruined stairs and banisters, making a slashing gesture towards Stiles with his palm as he lands.

Something hits Stiles mid-air, but it’s not Hulk’s fist.

Panic zips through him at the unknown, at suddenly being encased in something unfamiliar and claustrophobic, and he’s still in the air when, a second later, Hulk’s hand slams into him. 

Distantly, he’s aware of the screech of crumpling metal as he spins, flung into the wall. The impact jars through him, painful but not agonizing, and he hits the ground, eyes squeezed shut, harsh breaths rasping in his ears.

He should be dead.

Hulk had punched him into a goddamn _wall_.

He _shouldn’t be alive_ , let alone relatively unhurt, save for some bruising. 

A smooth English voice pierces the ringing in Stiles’s ears. “Try and stay calm, Stiles.”

He’s on his feet. He hadn’t made an effort to move, but he’s on his feet, and the panicked, disorientated spinning in his head settles as he realizes just what happened, what Tony’s gesture with his hands had meant.

He’d been guiding his suit, silently telling it to wrap around Stiles.

It feels…fuck, it feels _weird_ , claustrophobic and confusing, especially as JARVIS is clearly in control of it. 

“JARVIS, I don’t – I don’t know how to operate the armor, what the fuck do I do? Tony -.” He cuts off when he manages to make some sense of the HUD right in front of his face.

Tony’s in armor too, silver instead of red and gold, bulky and reinforced to withstand Hulk’s blows. More Iron Man suits descend from above, empty but operated by JARVIS, helping Tony to try and subdue the Hulk.

Stiles can’t help, he doesn’t know how to work the armor, but JARVIS does; it’s surreal, being moved when he’s not the one doing it. 

Instead of throwing Stiles into the fight, the armor lifts into the air and over the side of the stairs, dropping like a stone to the bottom of the building. Stiles winces, bracing himself for the impact, but the armor slows suddenly to a stop a few feet above the floor and then lands with easy elegance. 

He can hear the brawl a few floors up and wishes he could help, but he can’t. He’d be a liability right now.

Seconds later, he’s outside of the building and he’s beyond relieved when the suit opens, spilling him out onto the ground. Strong hands grab him by the shoulders, steadying him, and Stiles looks into Steve’s worried blue eyes before twisting to watch the armor fly back into the building to join Tony and the other suits.

For a second, all Stiles can do is blink, dumbstruck. And then he manages a breathless, “Holy _fuck_.”

“Language,” Steve murmurs fondly, but he frowns as he looks at Stiles. “Are you okay?”

Stiles honestly doesn’t know. Panic is still snapping through him, snarling at the adrenaline until they’re locked in a twisted tangle and he doesn’t feel pain, doesn’t feel anything except hot, desperate energy and breathless anger. He can’t tell if he’s hurt or not.

He manages a sort of shrug, which doesn’t seem to appease Steve much, but he nods, keeping his hands on Stiles’s shoulders to hold him steady. The rest of the team are there and the road has been blocked off by police and, fucking _finally_ , SHIELD. Alarms and flashing lights fill the night and for a second, it’s all too much, too overwhelming, and Stiles’s ears are still ringing, his head is still spinning, so he grabs hold of Steve’s jacket, holding on tight.

“The others?”

“Everyone is safe,” he says. “The whole building was evacuated. Coulson is dealing with the civilians and the prisoners we managed to get out of the fire are secure.”

Stiles blinks and looks up. Yep, that’s a fire alright. 

“Oh,” he says. “We, uh. We sort of ruined the building.”

There’s a roar and a rumble from inside and he winces slightly.

“And Tony is handling the Hulk, which will cause more property damage,” he adds with a sigh. “Fuck. This is a disaster.”

Steve’s expression is tight as he nods. They both watch as Thor charges into the building to help Tony and he leans into Steve, suddenly completely drained.

“Stiles,” Steve says quietly and his tone is serious enough to splinter through the fog that’s crept over Stiles. “Don’t do that again. Ever. _Please_.”

Stiles blinks at him. “What? Start a fire? Because they did it _first_ , I just kinda…added to it. A little bit.”

“You provoked the Hulk.”

“Well, yeah. I needed to get him away from civilians. I figured that was the best way to lure him out of there.”

“Stiles, you would have _died_ ,” Steve almost snarls the words through clenched teeth. “We could have handled it.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. And if Bruce _had_ hurt someone? Killed them? How do you think _he’d_ handle it?”

“That’s…” Steve exhales slowly, closing his eyes for a second. “Just promise me you won’t ever do that again. I thought…” he trails off, audibly swallows.

Stiles reaches up, cupping Steve’s face with trembling fingers. “Hey, big guy. I’m okay. I’m sorry.”

Steve leans their foreheads together for a second, pulling himself back together. The Hulk has gone silent, so, presumably, Tony and Thor have managed to subdue him, but the night isn’t over yet. 

The fight is the easy part. Now they’ve got clean up to get through and questions to answer.

Stiles almost wishes he _had_ been knocked out.

***

They sit in SHIELD medical, quiet and too exhausted to do much more than slump into chairs as staff flitter from patient to patient.

Steve stays by Stiles’s side and he’s glad for it. He’s completely drained and a little foggy now the adrenaline’s completely seeped out of him, but Steve’s proximity is comforting. 

Thor is completely unharmed, though his hair is a little singed from getting too close to the fire at some point. He still joins them in medical, though, standing with his arms crossed and a sombre expression on his face. 

Bruce isn’t physically hurt, either; his injuries had healed, thanks to the Hulk. He’s wearing borrowed clothes and he looks so _small_ , a blanket tucked around his shoulders and his hair a mess. He looks exhausted, both physically and mentally, a raw, haunted look in his eyes as he stares at the floor and lets a nurse take his blood pressure. 

Clint mutters a curse as his broken nose is set, but it’s the worst of his injuries; the bruises don’t need attention, so he waves the doctor away and starts wiping off the blood on his face, careful of his tender nose. Bucky and Natasha both escaped the fight with little more than a couple of small grazes and bruises, but they stay despite being given the clear by a doctor, sticking close to Allison’s side. 

Allison hadn’t been so lucky. The sharp cry that whistles between her clenched teeth as her dislocated shoulder is popped back into place makes Stiles’s stomach roll, bile stinging his throat. But once it’s done, her sob breaks off into a slightly relieved, if pained, groan and she settles back, letting Bucky take her hand as a small cut underneath her ear is cleaned and stitched up. 

Tony’s being sewn up, too; the piece of shrapnel embedded in his shoulder had been carefully removed and he stays still for the stitches. Pepper stays at his side, gently cleaning the tiny cut on his eyebrow. One of his ribs is cracked, but he doesn’t let the pain show on his face despite the tension in his body; he just watches Pepper with a soft, warm fondness on his face as she leans down to press a gentle kiss to his temple.

Two of Steve’s ribs are broken, but he’s already healing. He helps Stiles to carefully remove his jacket and shirt so a nurse can look at the wound on his hip. His expression goes tight as he looks at it, but it’s not that bad. Once it’s cleaned up a little, it turns out it only needs a few butterfly stitches. 

There’s a few more shallow cuts on Stiles’s skin from broken glass and fresh bruises on his arms and chest. His ribs ache, but a few painkillers will take care of that. Stiles swallows a couple of them down with some water and leans carefully into Steve’s side.

He just wants to sleep for at least twelve hours.

But they don’t have the luxury of sleeping just yet. Allison and Tony are both allowed to stay in medical, given the extent of their injuries, but they both decline what probably isn’t actually a suggestion, silently following the others out of medical.

Coulson looks almost as exhausted as Stiles feels. He’s stood in the conference room, arms folded slightly, flanked by May and Daisy. Stiles can’t help but feel like a scolded child waiting to be grounded as he takes a seat at the table. 

“Do I need a lawyer?” Tony asks, easing into his own chair. “Or maybe a guardian would be better, since I kind of feel like I’m about to get detention.”

Clint smiles slightly at that and Stiles can’t help the own twist of amusement on his own mouth, but Natasha rests a gentle hand on Tony’s good shoulder, a wordless admonition that now isn’t the time for jokes.

Coulson sighs. “What the hell happened, guys?”

Tony spreads his hands. “You tell me, because we have no idea,” he replies. “You’ve got some of them in custody, right?”

For a long moment, Coulson just holds Tony’s gaze before he turns to look at Stiles. “Agent Stilinski?” he prompts.

Stiles sighs and leans back in his chair. He runs through the whole evening, giving as many details as he can, though some of it is fuzzy from panic and disorientation. He can only offer what happened to him and from his perspective; the others will have to give their own report for Coulson to get a full picture of everything that happened, but it’s a good place to start.

Technically, the team, apart from Allison and Stiles, aren’t _obligated_ to give Coulson anything, but since they have SHIELD’s backing, they ought to at least help Coulson out by giving reports.

“Well, look at that, Agent,” Tony says when Stiles finishes talking. “You’ve got him well trained already. A perfect little SHIELD soldier.”

Stiles holds his gaze. “Some of us are capable of playing nice with others, Tony.”

He knows Tony’s only lashing out because of everything that’s happened tonight, but Stiles isn’t going to let him get away with it, especially with him. Before Tony can reply, Coulson neatly cuts in.

“The guys we’ve got in custody aren’t talking,” he says. “But they all have identical tattoos. I’m sure you can guess what it’s of.”

“Viper,” Natasha replies, distaste curling over the word.

“Don’t you just love it when bad guys make it easy for us?” Tony asks lightly. “We don’t even have to do the whole ‘who do you work for’ gig. It’s right there on their skin.”

“Because they’re not hiding,” Steve says. “They _want_ us to know who they are. They’re not afraid. There’s nothing good about that.”

“How did they get past your security?” Stiles asks Tony. When he catches the older man bristle, he raises his hands slightly. “That wasn’t a criticism. The gala should have been safe. Your security is tight and your background checks are pretty formidable, Tony, but some of the staff were imposters.”

“You’re right,” he agrees with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Someone was able to access all of the security plans. They were able to circumvent the guards on duty and slip their own men into the staff without anyone noticing. They knew _everything_. They had those bombs set up ready.”

“It could be the spy,” Stiles says, glancing at Coulson. 

May shakes her head. “None of that information was on SHIELD’s systems.”

“Right. But, uh…” Stiles trails off for a second. “What if our spy was able to access Tony’s systems?”

He’s not about to let slip about the first breach when he knows Tony doesn’t want SHIELD to know, but he manages to get the message across to those who _are_ aware of it. It’s safe to assume that whoever hacked JARVIS is involved in what happened tonight; they managed to gain access to Tony’s systems _again_ , without being noticed, to get all of the information they needed about the gala’s security plan.

“Son of a bitch,” Tony mutters, dark anger slashing across his face.

“Is that possible?” Daisy asks.

“You’d know,” he shoots back, with equal amounts of respect and distrust in his tone. “You’re an expert at hacking, right?”

She shrugs calmly. “Your systems are the best in the world, so you tell me.”

Tony pauses before admitting, “Sure, it’s possible. Hell, it’s _probable_. There’s no other way they could have accessed the full plans. I make sure that even if some of the security staff are questioned, they won’t have the full details. The only way they could have got all of the information is off my servers.” He scrubs a hand over his face, tension thrumming through him. “Fuck. I’ll have a look once we’re back at the tower, fix the breach and search the files, see if I can find a trace of whoever was snooping.”

“Need some help?” Daisy offers. “I mean, you did just say I’m an expert at hacking. I’ve got a good eye for the little traces most people miss.”

Stiles expects Tony to be offended at the offer, despite Daisy’s skills. Tony’s hacked into plenty of places he shouldn’t – like SHIELD, for example – and the servers are _his_ , after all. Besides, it’s obvious he doesn’t quite trust Daisy.

But he does respect her, at least. That much is obvious. And Tony is smart; he knows just how good Daisy is and that she could actually be of use. 

So he nods, just once, and Stiles doesn’t miss the little pleased smile on Daisy’s face. 

Stiles listens as the others start offering their own reports of what happened. He closes his eyes, lets the fog of exhaustion creep back over him, but he doesn’t lose his focus. It’s important to pay attention, to try and find any glimmer of new information in what the others say.

Clint is the last to report in and he follows it up with, “It was carefully planned.”

“Right,” Coulson agrees. “They attacked with force. They didn’t want to run the risk of failure.”

“And they didn’t,” Allison says.

“Didn’t what?”

“Fail,” Stiles answers for her. “They accomplished exactly what they wanted to do.”

“The sniper didn’t kill anyone,” Clint agrees. “He _should_ have done. Stiles was right there. He had a clean shot, but somehow the bullet just grazed him. The other shot, the one that hurt a civilian…everyone was running about and panicking, he so easily could have taken someone’s head off, but he didn’t. He only wanted to inflict a minor injury. He’s a good shot. A _damn_ good shot.”

“And they were using dart guns,” Natasha adds. 

“Not with the Hulk,” Stiles says with a careful glance at Bruce. “With us, they used dart guns. They had knives, but they weren’t aiming to actually kill us. Not until they started losing control of the situation, anyway. But they used real bullets on Bruce.”

“Because they knew I’d Hulk out,” Bruce replies quietly.

Tony mutters a curse. “They wanted it to happen around civilians. If Stiles hadn’t lured the big guy away…” he trails off, gaze on Stiles. 

“It would have been a disaster,” Steve finishes for him.

“Even _more_ of a disaster,” Coulson corrects him. “It’s all over the news. This gala is one of the most anticipated events of the year and all hell broke loose. The Avengers didn’t secure the safety of everyone attending. The superheroes were ambushed, civilians were hurt, and the Hulk made an appearance and could have hurt innocent people. Not to mention the property damage.”

Tony winces slightly. “Yeah, I’m guessing our PR is taking a massive dive bomb right now.”

“It makes sense,” Daisy says. “Viper and the Watchdogs don’t want to just kill superheroes. Sure, they could have taken one of you out, maybe even more than one, but that wouldn’t put a stop to the team or superheroes altogether. And the public would mourn and they’d side with you. But if they can make the public distrust superheroes, see them as a liability, instead of the good guys… _that_ is a hell of a lot more effective.”

“And it takes SHIELD down, too,” Stiles says. “You’re known to support the Avengers. If the Avengers go down…you can bet your ass the public will make sure you fall as well.” 

May nods. “That’s why Ward is working with them. He gets his revenge on us _and_ gets rid of the Avengers. With both SHIELD and superheroes out of the way, or at the very least distracted, Hydra can get a foothold without being intercepted.”

A few grim looks are exchanged over the table. Stiles rubs at his eyes, sighing slightly. They’d severely underestimated Viper, the Watchdogs, even Ward himself and now they were damn well paying for it.

“You know,” he says. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. Ward is a _dick_.”

***

A SHIELD van takes them back to the tower. Stiles sits between Steve and Tony and he’s tempted to fall asleep, but he refuses to give in to the exhaustion just yet. 

“Good work with the Hulk,” Tony says quietly. “I’m not sure if it was brave or stupid, but it’s what I would have done.”

Stiles glances at him. “In that case, it’s both.”

He snorts. “That’s fair,” he agrees. “But seriously. Good job. Hurting a civilian would mess him up.”

He nods slightly. “Thanks for the save,” he offers in return. “With the suit, I mean.”

“Very, very few have had the privilege of wearing the Iron Man armor,” he replies. “How’d you like it?”

“It was claustrophobic as hell. And kinda cramped since it’s designed for your short ass.” 

“Fuck off,” Tony replies without heat.

When they get back to the tower, Stiles lets the others go ahead and lingers to walk in with Bruce. The older man doesn’t meet his gaze as they head towards the private elevator.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Stiles shakes his head quickly. “I shot you,” he points out. “ _I’m_ sorry.”

“You stopped me from hurting others,” Bruce insists. “And I nearly killed you.”

“This isn’t your fault, Bruce. It’s _theirs_ , the fuckers who forced the situation, and they will pay, okay? But it isn’t your fault. I don’t blame you. Not even a little bit.”  
Bruce still doesn’t look at him and an ache throbs through Stiles. He knows that Bruce blames himself, that he’s tearing himself apart over what happened, and he doesn’t know how to help.

Luckily, Tony and Steve do. When Bruce disappears into his suite, they silently follow. 

Stiles leaves them to help Bruce and heads to his own quarters. He peels off the tuxedo and takes a shower, brief but hot, washing away sweat and blood. When he feels clean, he dries off and tugs on his sleep clothes, crawling into bed. 

Only when he’s comfortable does he check his phone. He’s got dozens of missed calls and messages. He wants to let the darkness swallow him, wants to forget the whole damn world for a while, but that would be selfish; he has people who are worried about him. So he stays awake long enough to check in with both his dad and Scott, reassuring them both that he’s okay, that he’s now home and safe.

Once that’s done, he plugs his phone in to charge. Just as he goes to place it on the nightstand, it lights up with a message from Lydia.

_Lydia [2:17]: I saw what happened on the news. You ruined the tuxedo, didn’t you?_

Some of the tension leaves him as he laughs, remembering her warning to not get bruised and battered again because it would ruin the look of the tux. He types out a quick response and sends it.

_Stiles [2:18]: it’s a goner. Sorry._

He gets a little frown emoji in response and smiles, setting his phone aside. He considers staying up for Steve, but he knows it could be a while before Steve comes to bed, so he just curls up under the blanket, tugging it over his head to shut everything else out.

And then he sleeps.

***

He makes the mistake of switching on the news the next morning.

Predictably, a hell of a lot of people aren’t really Avengers-friendly right now. Footage of the building on fire loops on all of the news stations, spliced with interviews with civilians who were there or nearby when everything went down. 

No one talks about them protecting the innocent people. Instead, they talk about how the Hulk nearly destroyed the building and could have killed people. Instead, they talk about the danger posed to anyone near superheroes. Instead, they talk about the team like it’s _their_ fault. 

They go in on the Avengers. They go almost as hard on SHIELD, accusing them of protecting the team from any consequences, throwing around words carelessly in their rage and discomfort with no thought to how it might sway public opinion against the Avengers and SHIELD.

Everything the team has done, all the lives they’ve saved, the disasters they’ve prevented, suddenly means nothing in the face of one incident.

Stiles knows it’ll blow over. It’s nothing new; it’s happened before and once things calm down again, people will move on. But he’s willing to bet Viper won’t allow that to happen, that they’re going to keep pushing and pushing until the public and the government turns on superheroes for real. 

The worst part is when they try and use Stiles against the team. It’s not publicly known that he’s a SHIELD agent, so in the eyes of the public, he’s just another civilian who could have got hurt simply because he was on Steve’s arm at the event. 

Rage simmers in his gut. He has to turn the TV off and clench his hands into his fists, so full of blinding anger that for a second, he can barely breathe. He wants to tear them apart. Viper, the Watchdogs, _Hydra_ , all of them, he wants to destroy them, wants to make sure nothing can rise from the ashes. 

He can’t stomach breakfast, so he just makes himself a mug of coffee and cradles it in his hands as he goes down to Bruce’s lab. As he’d suspected, the older man is there, distracting himself with work, but he does glance up when he hears Stiles, expression tightening slightly.

“If you genuinely want space, I’ll go,” Stiles promises. “But I trust you, Bruce, and I’d like to be around you.”

Bruce hesitates. “Stiles…”

“I just made the mistake of watching TV,” he adds. “And I just can’t with…well, _everything_ right now. So can I just hang out here? It’s kinda soothing in here. _You’re_ kinda soothing.”

For a moment, Bruce just looks at him before he sighs, mouth twitching into a small smile. “You’re just as stubborn as Tony.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

He shakes his head, but he pauses as he walks past Stiles, pressing a gentle, brief hand to the younger man’s shoulder before carrying on. They don’t talk, or swap apologies or reassurances again, but Stiles knows that they’re okay.

Some of the tension inside of him uncoils.

He sits down on one of the lab tables that isn’t in use, swinging his legs slightly as he sips his coffee. It’s always interesting and, maybe strangely, soothing to watch Bruce work. He has none of the frenetic energy of Tony, none of his barely leashed, mad-scientist like quirks. He’s just as eager and takes just as much joy in his work as Tony does and he has the same tendency to talk to himself, although it’s more of a distracted mumble than Tony’s confident, loud technobabble, but he’s a lot calmer, a lot more controlled. 

Tony is like a bottled hurricane, a whirlwind of movement and intelligence so sharp it’s almost cutting, always ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room. Bruce is like the eye of that storm; quiet, calm, but no less powerful, with the soft, easy confidence of someone who’s also always ahead of everyone else and is used to it. Tony’s an unstoppable force, but Bruce is an unmoveable one.

It should be a disaster for the two of them to work together, but somehow, they fit together perfectly. They balance each other out, bringing out the best in each other while smoothing out the rough edges; Bruce’s quiet control mitigates Tony’s bouncing, bull-in-a-china-shop energy, and Tony’s unparalleled glee and love for his work and his creations encourages the natural curiosity and desire for knowledge in Bruce. Separately, the two geniuses are at the top of the game in their different scientific fields, innovative and brilliant with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and improvement.

But together? They’re a force to be reckoned with.

It varies all the time which environment Stiles finds more relaxing; sometimes, the loud noise and metal and circuitry of Tony’s workshop is exactly what he needs, Tony’s energy and intense, raw focus and frequent stream of words, bouncing back and forth with JARVIS as he comes up with ideas and solutions, calming and enjoyable to watch. Other times, it’s the quietness of Bruce’s lab and his careful, steady movements, his cautious nature and soft mumbling and the quiet clink of equipment that soothes Stiles. 

Right now, Stiles needs the latter. He doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence as he watches Bruce work. He’s always been interested in science, found a kind of comfort in it’s potential to be both predictable and surprising, and had aced his classes, but he tends to be more fascinated by the stuff Tony does. Probably because it’s less familiar to him, because he has to work to understand it, and he likes seeing how it all comes together. It’s like art, in a way. Seeing how every single piece of technology, down to the smallest, most seemingly insignificant part of metal or circuitry, comes together to create something so _brilliant_ is kind of awe inspiring. 

Bruce’s science is a little less in your face, a little less flashy than Tony’s, but no less incredible and innovative. Stiles might prefer Tony’s results, but it’s still a pretty awesome honor to be able to witness someone like Dr Banner work, to hear him talk and explain things that Stiles struggles to wrap his head around because it’s just so… _wonderful_.

“How are your ribs?” 

Stiles blinks, looking up from the dregs of his coffee. Bruce is stood in front of a whiteboard. He likes working with JARVIS just as much as Stiles does, wields the holographs like it’s second nature to him, but apparently, there are still some things that Bruce just simply prefers to do the old fashioned way. Working out equations and formulas is one of those things, his handwriting a messy, slightly impatient scrawl on the board.

“A little tender, but definitely not too bad,” Stiles replies. “I’ve had a lot worse.”

Bruce slides him a dryly amused glance at that. “In the months since you’ve become an agent, you’ve been stabbed, bruised your ribs, and walked around this tower with cuts and bruises that would make a crash test dummy look healthy. I think you’re doing the agent thing wrong.”

“But I’m not dead,” Stiles points out cheerfully. “So, arguably, I’m doing it _right_.”

Bruce laughs slightly. “That’s one theory, I suppose.”

Stiles grins, swinging his legs slightly. He feels a little sore and still kinda tired, his body recovering from last night a bit slower than his mind, but his brain pretty much always feels like that, like it’s on the edge of being too much, so it’s not really anything new. He can deal with the slight ache in his muscles and lingering fatigue; it doesn’t feel that much different from lacrosse practice. The day after running suicide drills were the worst but he’d still drag his body out of bed and go to school. This is the same, except there’s a hell of a lot more riding on him being up to facing any potential challenges.

“What are you working on?” he asks.

“Kaplow’s serum.”

Stiles blinks. “I thought you’d already figured out the formula?”

“I did,” Bruce agrees mildly. “It took about two days.”

He grins. Of course the result of years of obsession and work on Kaplow’s part took less than a week for Bruce to replicate. “I love it when you go all Tony about your brains,” he says. “Smugness is a good look on you.”

“This isn’t me being smug. This is me being wistful for a challenge,” Bruce jokes. He tucks a pen behind his ear; it slips and clatters to the floor a second later, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “It was clear what angle he was working from. Part of his theory on the super soldier serum was sound, but what he was trying to do never would have worked. It was never going to be close to a replication of the serum. But what he _did_ create is an effective strength enhancer.” 

Stiles nods. “Right. Not the serum, sure, but plenty of people interested in buying the formula for almost super strength, even for a brief period of time. It’s like an adrenaline shot but…better.” He pauses, remember the look in the Boyce twins’ eyes. “Or not, since it apparently scoops you out and leaves you hollow.”

“Bart Boyce messed with Klapow’s formula,” Bruce reminds him. “He decided he could fix it, make it better, closer to the serum. It didn’t work, obviously. It made the effects stronger, but a lot less stable, and they overloaded their system. That’s what… _scooped them out_. Klapow’s original formula is more stable, as you saw with Grant Ward’s men.”

“Right,” Stiles says with a nod. “They weren’t as strong, but they weren’t as out of control, either.”

“Coulson confirmed that Ward got some of the original, untainted strength serum from Bart Boyce before he and his brother made their adjustments. He distributed it to his men, but he wanted more. That’s why he found Klapow and dug him out of hiding.” 

Stiles drains his coffee and sets his mug aside. “Klapow spent all that time he was underground working on his formula.”

It makes sense. The serum was his life’s work, was his driving force and obsession; of course he wouldn’t just leave it once he had to go into hiding. In fact, while he didn’t have the same kind of funding, he’d have the time and probably better access to criminal connections to get what he needed to focus entirely on the formula.

“He improved it,” Bruce agrees. “I don’t know how, but Ward wants his hands on it. That’s what I’m working on now. I’m trying to figure out _how_ the formula can be improved, how Klapow might have adjusted it. That way we’ll be prepared if he or Ward succeeds in distributing it. If I can work it out, I can also try and reverse-engineer it, create a…cure, of sorts. Something we can use to counter the serum.”

Stiles nods. “That’s brilliant. I’d offer my help but…well, this is basically beyond me.” He squints at Bruce’s handwriting. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing.”

“This is helpful,” Bruce replies kindly. “Talking about it with someone else is good.” 

He hums, staring at the board for a moment longer before he snaps his fingers. “Lydia! I bet she could help.”

“Is this her area of expertise?” Bruce asks.

“Well…technically, no. But why limit yourself to one field, right? I mean, you’re an expert in biology, chemistry, engineering, physiology, nuclear physics, and…Christ, how many PhD’s do you _have_?”

“Slightly more than Tony, not as many as Reed Richards,” he replies with a sly smile.

“Yeah, okay, Brain Trust. But Lydia’s the same. She’s interested in a hell of a lot of things, especially mathematics and the sciences. And more importantly, she’s _brilliant_ in all of those things, too. She’s not the type of person to be satisfied with being adequate at something. She’s got to be the best, or at least one of the best.” Stiles spreads his hands slightly. “I’m not saying she’ll understand it all perfectly. But she’s brilliant, okay? And she’s good at noticing the things other people might miss. She’s got a keen eye for that sort of stuff.”

Bruce nods slightly, thoughtful. “And she can be trusted?”

“Hell yeah she can. She’s my friend. And she wouldn’t be in it to get her hands on the formula or anything like that. She’s not interested in that stuff. Sure, she has an academic interest in superheroes and Inhumans and such, but that’s because she likes to see how things work. She figures out what makes something tick and then she moves on. She doesn’t want it for herself.” He shrugs slightly. “Basically, she’d do it just to show she can.”

“Alright,” Bruce agrees. “I admit, I could use the help.”

Stiles smiles and tugs his phone out of his pocket, dialling Lydia’s number. It rings out three times before she answers.

“Stiles,” her tone is crisp, but he knows her well enough to catch the concern lacing it. “Hi.”

“Hey, Lyds. Are you busy?”

“Well, you just interrupted me in the middle of tearing apart this idiot’s paper on Fermat’s Last Theorem – no, David, we are _not_ colleagues, and, yes, I _will_ call you an idiot when you try and sell me on something as – oh for goodness sake, just look at the first page! Your arithmetic is wrong!”

Of course Lydia had answered her phone in the middle of tearing some poor soul apart, probably just as a pointed reminder that he’s wasting her time. Stiles feels a familiar fondness mingled with relief that he’s _not_ someone on the wrong side of her.

“Lydia,” he cuts in, smiling slightly.

She clears her throat primly. “Right, sorry. Hi. Are you okay?” the agitated tone settles into one of pure warmth, concern splintering through it. “You messaged me back last night, but you didn’t tell me if you were hurt. I was planning on coming by to see you, actually.”

“I’m okay,” he promises. “A little bruised, but I’ve had worse. Allison wasn’t so lucky.”

“I know. I spoke to her earlier and I’m going to visit her once I finish up here. Apparently, she’s resting in the tower.” There’s a pause and he can almost _hear_ her roll her eyes. “But she’s still insisting that the three of them are casual, of course.”

Stiles smiles. “Of course. Hey, after you see Allison, how do you feel about coming to do some science?”

“Some science,” she repeats dryly. “Well, with those kind of specifics, how can I decline?”

“Lydia, sweetheart, angel, love of my life -.”

“Poor Steve.”

“ _Platonic_ love of my life, the only person I will ever bow down to, apple of my eye -.”

She makes an amused sound. “Get to the point, Stiles.”

“How would you like to do science with Dr Bruce Banner?” 

A long pause, then, “I would love to. Tell Dr Banner I’ll be there at two.”

Stiles grins. “I’ll have coffee waiting for you.”

“Good. You know how I take – oh for God’s sake, _David_ – look, I’m going to have to go. I’ll see you later.” She gives a little kiss into the phone that she only does when she’s completely distracted and not really thinking about it and he laughs before the call disconnects. 

“She’s in,” he tells Bruce. “She says she’ll be here at two.”

Bruce looks a little surprised but also pretty glad for the help. He nods his thanks a second later, but his attention is already straying back to the board. 

Stiles leaves him be for a while, heading back to his suite. Steve’s back from his workout, freshly showered and dressed, but his expression is tired. He gives Stiles a smile that almost, but doesn’t quite, reach his eyes before looking back down at the kitchen island, focusing on chopping up vegetables.

“Hey there, Stars and Stripes,” Stiles says softly. “Why so glum?”

Stiles gives him a slightly pointed look. “I think you know the answer to that.”

“Yeah. I guess I do.” Stiles rests his hand on the small of Steve’s back, rubbing slow, comforting circles. “I made the mistake of watching the news this morning.” He kisses Steve’s shoulder. “Okay, so, things aren’t great today. But we really don’t need to make it worse by exposing ourselves to food poisoning, so how about you let me take over, huh?”

Steve’s answering smile is a little more genuine, amused and fond as he silently steps aside, letting Stiles take his spot at the counter. He moves to sit on one of the stools, watching Stiles, quiet, expression introspective. Stiles just focuses on slicing mushrooms as he waits for Steve to speak.

Finally, he murmurs, “It’s just…it’s never easy.”

Stiles nods. “I know. But it’s happened before. It’ll happen again. It always blows over.”

“Sure,” Steve agrees. “But it’s difficult to see people turn on us. There’ll always be the vocal crowd, the ones who have always disliked us and always will, but when the rest of the public starts to sway that way as well...we try our best, we’re doing what we can to protect this planet, and it’s just…”

“Frustrating,” Stiles offers. “I know. One thing goes wrong, an incident that isn’t even your fault, and people drown out and shout over the fact that it was Viper and the Watchdogs, because it’s easier to blame the guys they know will take the fall. It’s easier to pin it all on you because that way they have a target when they lash out. It’s not fair.”

“We don’t do it for glory. We don’t do it to be liked or respected. We do it because someone has to. We have the ability to keep people safe, so we do our damn best to do it, but being treated like we’re more of a problem than anything…” He shakes his head slightly. “I can take it. But I hate seeing Tony have to take the brunt of it, like he always does. I hate people treating Bruce with suspicion and vitriol despite the thousands of lives he’s saved. I hate the attention on Natasha and Clint and their pasts, the wariness of Thor simply because he’s not human, the way people drag you and Pepper into it…it’s not right. Any of it.”

“It’s not fair,” Stiles repeats. “But it will blow over. The tide will turn again, Steve.”

He gives a dubious smile. “For someone who insists on keeping a pretty cynical outlook on life, you’re incredibly positive sometimes.”

Stiles shrugs. “Sometimes, someone’s gotta be, otherwise _everyone_ is jaded and that’s never a good thing. You can’t be that person right now and that’s okay. You shouldn’t have to be that person all the time. I can take that responsibility for a while.” 

Steve’s throat works as he swallows, speechless for a moment. Stiles carries on chopping, sweeping the mushrooms to one side so he can start on the zucchini. 

“I love you,” Steve manages finally.

Stiles smiles slightly. “I know. I love you too.” He glances up. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Tony and Pepper are handling the PR. I hate that he deals with that burden without the rest of the team, but…”

“He’s good at it,” Stiles finishes. “He knows how to play the press and get them eating out of the palm of his hand. He can handle it, Steve, don’t worry.”

“He’s also paying for the damages to the building, medical care for anyone hurt, and providing compensation,” Steve adds. “The rest of us are going to lie low for a while, unless the Avengers are needed. We’ll let this storm pass on its own.”

“Right. But…well, like I said, this has happened before. Viper are aware of that. I’m pretty sure they’ve got more tricks up their sleeves to make sure the storm _doesn’t_ pass.” 

“Well,” Steve offers. “If the public still want our heads…we can always remind them of the time Richards and his team almost destroyed the Empire State Building.”

Stiles laughs. “Deflecting the heat onto someone else? I like your style.”

Steve smiles and they lapse into silence for a few minutes. Stiles finishes preparing the vegetables, chopping with rapid, precise movements, making quick work of cutting up an eggplant, bell peppers and tomatoes. 

“You’re good at that,” Steve murmurs.

He shrugs. “I’m okay. My granddad taught me how to cook before he passed away. His cooking ability definitely skipped a generation. Dad can’t boil water without ruining something.” 

Steve smiles softly. “My ma was a good cook,” he murmurs. “There wasn’t a lot available back then, but she’d do her best to get what she needed to make me soup when I was sick. I guess the ability to cook skipped over me, too.”

“You’re not so bad. You’re good at making bacon.”

“High praise,” Steve replies dryly.

Stiles grins, offering a wink, and is pleased when it makes Steve give a genuine laugh, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. 

He finishes lunch, the suite filling with the scent of garlic, tomatoes and cooked vegetables. He doesn’t know what Steve was planning to make, but he decides to replicate a dish his granddad had taught him when he was a kid, trying to encourage him to eat vegetables since Stiles otherwise would have happily lived on pizza rolls and Oreos.

They eat at the kitchen counter. Stiles gazes out of the window, watching the bland grey sky, smearing like dust beyond the skyscrapers. It looks like it might be cold enough to snow soon. He likes snow, he likes the frost and the sharp chill, but he can’t help but feel like the bleak weather mirrors how he feels right now.

Steve washes up and Stiles slides off the stool, planning to distract himself with…well, _anything_ , but Steve gently captures him, hands on Stiles’s hips. He draws him into a slow, sweet kiss.

“Sometimes…” he pauses, sighs. “Sometimes I wish we could just be us. That we could live quiet lives somewhere without all of…this.”

“Steve Rogers, when have you _ever_ lived a quiet life?” Stiles points out fondly. “You’d miss the city and the superhero gig within a week, I can guarantee it.”

Steve smiles slightly. “Probably.”

“You’re not one to live a quiet life when you could be out there, helping people,” Stiles adds softly. “But if you ever do retire…and I decide to retire from SHIELD as well…we could find a nice farm somewhere, spend our days, I dunno, doing whatever it is that normal couples do.”

“Sounds awful,” Steve teases.

“Right? Too boring.” He leans in, bumping their noses together affectionately. “But I mean it. I’d like that someday, with you.”

Steve’s arms wrap around him. “Me too,” he replies. He kisses him again before murmuring, “How about just for today, we’re just us? Everything else, the whole world, just…doesn’t exist for a while. We can just…” he trails off.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “Just us.”

Steve kisses him again, slow and deep, and it’s easy to do just that, to let everything else just slip away until it’s just the two of them, bodies pressed together, Steve’s mouth on his and Stiles’s hands on Steve’s back, pulling him in closer.

They barely pull apart as they make their way to the bedroom. Once the door is shut, Steve presses him against it, mouthing at Stiles’s neck, leaving a mark there before he kisses across his jaw to his mouth. He strips Stiles slowly, reverently, touching him like he’s something precious, and it leaves Stiles trembling and vulnerable in the most beautiful way he knows, just for Steve. _Only_ for Steve. 

They take each other apart slowly, intimately, rubbing against each other, bringing one another to a slow, almost gentle orgasm that leaves them both breathless and sated. Stiles curls against Steve’s side after, sliding his fingertips over warm, damp skin, mapping out Steve’s flesh with his hands and lips. Steve wraps his arms around him, holding him close, and they don’t speak.

They don’t need to.

Stiles doesn’t sleep, but he lets himself drift, just enjoying the quiet and the sensation of Steve’s body against his own. He pillows his head on Steve’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, and closes his eyes.

He’d meant it when he’d talked about retirement. Not now, probably not for a very long time – Steve is Captain America, after all, and Stiles has just started his career with SHIELD, and neither one of them can turn a blind eye when people need help – but someday, _one day_ , he wants it. He wants that quiet life with Steve, where it’s just the two of them. 

He’s never cared about marriage, but he wants that with Steve; he wants to call him his husband, wants to take Steve’s last name and for them both to wear a ring on their finger for the whole world to see. He wants the whole house and a picket fence deal, wants goofy couple routines and dumb jokes just to make each other laugh and picking up on each other’s mannerisms and quirks, entangling their lives as intimately as they do their bodies. He wants…God, he wants a _dog_ , and lazy Sunday mornings in bed and shared chores and reading side by side before they go to bed, he wants all of it, all of the domesticity, all of the commitment, he wants a whole future with Steve, a _forever_ with Steve.

He never thought he’d want it, but he does. He wants it all.

He wants it all with _Steve_.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important trigger warnings for this chapter: there is a detailed description of torture and a corpse. It's dark and pretty graphic, so if that's something you're not comfortable with, please don't read that part. If you skip from the line 'He closes the door again and moves on to Vault B' to the paragraph starting 'He closes the door behind him', you'll miss the torture description. 
> 
> As well as that scene, warnings are in place for: graphic violence, blood and injuries, guns, knives, explosions.

Too soon, the peace is fractured by JARVIS’s smooth voice filling the room.

“Forgive the interruption, Captain Rogers, but Agent Romanov, Sergeant Barnes and Miss Argent are requesting access to the suite.”

Stiles groans. “I really hope they bring the gift of good news because I am not in the mood for anything else.”

Steve presses a kiss to his temple, smoothing a reassuring hand down Stiles’s spine before pulling away, already sliding into Captain America mode. Stiles squirms off the bed and quickly tugs on clothes, reaching out to fix Steve’s messy sex-hair before they leave the bedroom. 

Stiles makes a beeline for the kitchen as the door to the suite opens, starting a fresh pot of coffee. The others join him a minute later, getting comfortable at the kitchen counter, and Stiles fixes them all a coffee, just how he knows they like it. He hands out the mugs before sitting down with his own.

“You good?” he asks Allison.

“Well, you know,” she replies with a smile. “Could be better, could be worse.”

He grins. “You know, I’ve been stabbed _and_ shot now. You’re falling behind.”

“You were a tiny bit stabbed and not even shot. The bullet _barely_ grazed you.” She argues. “Try dislocating your shoulder.” 

“Uh, I _have_ ,” he replies. “When we were sixteen, remember?”

“The goal is to _not_ get hurt,” Natasha points out, but there’s a fond smile on her mouth.

It takes him a second to register that the fondness is aimed at both of them and something in his chest knots up for a second. He’s even worse than Natasha at this stuff, at the whole sentimentality thing, so he doesn’t comment on it. He just takes a sip of his coffee and leans back in his seat.

“So,” he says. “What’s up? Is the world ending? Again?”

“No,” Natasha replies. “But we thought you’d want to know what’s going on.” 

Steve looks resigned, but his shoulders straighten as he prepares for whatever blow they’re about to be dealt. “What is it?”

“The amount of negative crap being posted online has shot up after last night,” Allison says with a sigh. “And not just here. _Everywhere_. Viper’s got members and supporters all over the world and they’re rallying to post videos designed to turn people against the Avengers, against superheroes in general.”

Stiles nods. “We kinda expected this. They lit a fire last night but they’re gonna make sure it keeps burning. It doesn’t surprise me that they’re already throwing more fuel onto it.”

“This is more than just some anti-superhero bullshit,” Bucky replies. “They ain’t fuckin’ around, pal. They’re getting real nasty, even throwing death threats out there.”

“JARVIS?” Natasha prompts.

The TV comes to life, already displaying a live stream of a bunch of people in Viper masks, spewing the same shit that Stiles has already heard from the group dozens of times before. But then JARVIS switches to a video of the Watchdogs, giving their usual threats and warnings, and there’s something dark, something chilling underlying it, because they _mean_ it. They fully and completely mean it.

They’re confident.

They clearly have something planned, something that will get rid of superheroes, or at least the Avengers, permanently, but Stiles has no idea what it is or what it could be and that…that is pretty fucking terrifying. 

The video changes again, this time to one of a large pro-Viper protest in London; another video is in Russian, another in Mandarin, more and more of them piling up, all over the world, in over a dozen different languages, but the theme is the same. Steve watches, silent and tense, expression grim. 

JARVIS pulls up another video. The guy is wearing a Viper mask – one with Captain America’s shield emblazoned on it – and practically snarling into the camera. Steve’s expression twists slightly with confusion and he glances at Natasha and Bucky, but they both shrug. At Steve’s surprised look, Natasha narrows her eyes, a little defensive.

“I speak seventeen languages. This isn’t one of them.” She folds her arms. “JARVIS, can you…?”

“It’s Polish,” Stiles cuts in quietly and her gaze swings to him. “He’s saying that Inhumans are a scourge, a cancer that keeps growing and growing and needs to be destroyed. He says that the Avengers are the true evil, that Captain America is a creation of science and not of God, and Thor is a test, sent from Hell itself, and that those who dare to call themselves heroes are the ones who will destroy everything.” He snorts slightly. “Basically, the same bullshit that the rest say, except seasoned with a nice dash of crazy. He’s calling for people like the Avengers to be culled.”

Steve looks at him. “You speak Polish?”

He blinks. “Well…yeah.” At Natasha’s mild surprise, he shrugs slightly. “Where the hell did you _think_ my first name came from? Trust me, my parents didn’t just pick it out of a hat. I was named after my paternal grandfather. His grandparents were Polish immigrants.”

“We know,” Natasha says. “That’s in your file. But it didn’t mention that you speak Polish.”

“Oh. I guess that’s because I don’t speak it often. I used to as a kid. My dziadek and my dad taught me. Sometimes my dad and I still speak it when it’s just us; it reminds him of his father, of family and stuff. I don’t really use it otherwise, but it’s still up here,” he taps his temple. “Just…a little rusty.”

“Huh,” Steve says.

Natasha’s mouth tips up slightly. “That’s useful.”

Stiles takes a sip of his coffee. “So, this is pretty…awful. How are we gonna handle it?”

“We can try and shut down the videos that actively threaten lives,” Allison points out. “But the others…if we try and go after them, we’ll be accused of censoring them. It won’t look good when people are already gunning for the Avengers.”

Steve nods. “And while Viper is a threat, the team can’t go after them. Not now. They’ll use it against us.” 

“Right,” Stiles agrees. “Same for known SHIELD agents, like Daisy. But someone like me? Or Allison? If we’re discreet about it, we can go after them.”

“It’s a risk.”

“Who doesn’t love a risk?” Stiles replies lightly. “What they did last night was all different shades of fucked up. They put innocent lives at risk to try and ruin the Hulk and the rest of the team. So we’re gonna fight just as dirty.”

Allison meets his gaze, offering a smile that’s sharp as a knife. “Fight dirty, fight viciously, fuck them up with _extreme_ prejudice.”

He grins back. “That’s the motto.”

***

After Allison, Natasha and Bucky leave, Stiles gulps down another mug of coffee, letting the sting of caffeine cut away the lingering tiredness in his bones.

Steve heads out after a while as well, intending to speak to Coulson about the videos and come up with a plan of action. Stiles considers going with him, but then JARVIS lets him know that Lydia’s finished visiting Allison.

He’d…kind of forgotten about that, but he makes sure he doesn’t show it when he goes to meet her. He suspects she knows, though, probably from just taking one look at his face, but she doesn’t comment, just steps into the elevator with him.

“You don’t look like hell, at least,” she remarks. “You look a lot better than Allison.”

“She’ll heal,” Stiles reassures her.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Of course she will. It’s Allison. It takes a lot more than that to keep her down.” She glances at a bruise on Stiles’s jaw. “Shame about the tuxedo, though. Did Steve like it?”

“He did. He didn’t get a chance to strip me out of it like I’d hoped, but he did like it.”

She smiles. “Good. I told you he would.”

Her hair spills down her shoulders in perfect curls but as the elevator whisks them to the right floor, she conjures a silver clip seemingly out of thin air and she does a neat little twist, piling her hair up and out of the way. She’s obviously come straight to the tower after delivering her lectures, dressed in a patterned blouse tucked into a knee length leather skirt, and her high heels click on the floor as they head into Bruce’s lab.

He’s bent over one of the tables, goggles on his face, but he glances up when he hears her approach. He straightens quickly and takes the goggles off, tossing them slightly haphazardly onto the table. He offers a hand and a slightly shy, polite smile.

“Miss Martin,” he greets. “Thank you for coming over. I really appreciate the help.”

She reaches out without hesitation, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Dr Banner,” she replies. “Especially since you appreciate my help. I’ve found that not many men in our field are willing to admit that they need a hand, especially from a woman.”

Bruce blinks slightly. “Well, that’s stupid.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Good answer,” she says. “You know, your work on nuclear decay, specifically two-neutrino double electron capture, is remarkable.”

Stiles grins. He knows that a lot of Dr Banner’s work had been pretty formative for Lydia, especially when she stopped trying to hide her unquenchable thirst for knowledge and academic achievement. 

“Thank you,” Bruce says after a moment, clearly pleased. “Actually, I was in Switzerland when you presented your paper on the backward acceleration of black holes. I thought it was brilliant.”

Lydia tilts her head slightly. “My math was wrong.”

“But your theory was solid,” Bruce counters. “And your presentation was…well, actually quite inspiring.”

Lydia’s smile widens, her eyes lighting up at the knowledge that _Bruce Banner_ knows about her and her academic contributions, that he’s actually seen one of her presentations and thought it was _inspiring_. Bruce smiles back, looking equally happy to speak to someone who actually knows what he’s talking about.

“Oh god,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “You’re both gonna nerd out on me, aren’t you?”

Lydia’s smile turns saccharine as she looks at him. “Stiles, sweetheart, you know that playing stupid doesn’t suit you. You’re going to nerd out just as much.”

He shrugs. “Probably. I don’t really get this stuff on the same level that you do, though.”

“We’ll help you keep up,” she promises, giving a wink that makes him laugh.

Stiles makes himself comfortable in one of the chairs, watching and occasionally volunteering his thoughts, but mostly he leaves them to it. Pretty soon they’re not really paying attention to him anyway, both of them completely focused on, as Stiles predicted, nerding the hell out. 

Lydia looks like she’s in her element, all of her masks slipping away as she unleashes all of that sharp, raw intelligence on the problem in front of them, everything else around her completely forgotten.

At first, Bruce looks a little hesitant, a little shy, but as it becomes obvious that Lydia simply isn’t going to be wary or suspicious of him, his timid smile gives way to one of pure bemusement. He gets the same look of confusion on his face that he does every single time someone outside of the team treats him with anything other than caution or downright fear. But Lydia isn’t the kind of person to let something like Bruce’s big green alter ego intimidate her, especially when it could get in the way of _science_ , and she probably hasn’t even spared a thought about the Hulk. Eventually, Bruce’s bewilderment fizzles away as well and then he’s just as focused, clearly enjoying working with someone else on the formula.

After a couple of hours, Stiles leaves them to it and heads up to the communal floor. Allison’s there, looking completely at home on the couch, feet propped up in Bucky’s lap as she leans against Natasha’s side and flicks through a magazine. Clint’s sprawled on the other couch, filling the space as obnoxiously as possible, watching something JARVIS has projected on the ceiling for him.

“Lydia settled in the lab?” Allison asks as Stiles sits down in the last available seat.

He nods. “She and Bruce are getting on like a house on fire. It’s a little unnerving actually.”

She grins. “I bet.”

Stiles smiles and reaches over to the bowl of chips balanced precariously on Clint’s stomach, stealing a handful. He munches on them quietly for a few minutes, just enjoying the peaceful companionship, glad that he’s surrounded by people who, like him, don’t feel the pressure to actually be social and fill the silence. He feels at ease.

When he reaches over for more chips, Clint smacks his hand without even looking. Stiles laughs and leans back, deciding that trying again wouldn’t be wise; instead, he slips his phone out of his pocket, tucks his earphones in, and pulls up one of JARVIS’s learning challenges, selecting Japanese.

He’s surprised when, only two hours later, Lydia and Bruce join them. Lydia smiles at the look on his face, reaching out to ruffle his hair playfully.

“I just came to say goodbye,” she says. “I’m heading home.”

“Already?” Allison asks.

“Well, we’ve finished,” Lydia replies. “It was actually pretty easy to figure it out when there were two pairs of eyes looking at the problem.”

Stiles grins and looks at Bruce. “I told you she was good.”

Lydia smiles, carefully hugging Allison, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Rest,” she reminds her. “Take care of yourself. If I find out that you’ve gone back into the field too early, I will tie your cute butt to a bed if I have to.”

“Kinky,” Allison remarks dryly. “I’ll be fine, Lyds. I promise.”

Lydia hums but nods. She kisses Stiles’s cheek before stepping back into the elevator, offering a little flutter of her fingers in a wave as the doors slide closed. 

Stiles gets to his feet, stretching. He wonders, briefly, whether Steve is home yet and considers going to their suite to check, but before he can make a decision, his phone buzzes in his hand at the same instant Natasha, Bucky and Clint’s phones go off. 

Stiles glances at the three of them before looking at the text. It’s from Coulson, just three simple words: _We’ve located Ward_.

He grins. “Looks like we’re up.”

***

Stiles can tell that Allison isn’t happy about not being able to go with them, but with her arm still in a sling, it’d be too much of a risk to put her in the field and she knows it. Still, her smile is tight and there’s concern in her dark eyes as she watches them get ready to head to HQ.

It’s the first mission Stiles is going on without having Allison at his back.

Sure, he’ll have Natasha and Bucky and he trusts and believes in their ability to have his back just as much as he’ll have theirs, but they’re not _Allison_. 

She kisses Bucky and Natasha and murmurs softly in their ears, and Stiles steps back, casually giving them some privacy. When she’s done, she turns to him, giving him a careful, one armed hug.

“Be careful,” she says quietly. “Be _safe_. And kick his ass for me, okay?”

He smiles. “With pleasure.”

If he was on his own, he’d ride his motorbike to the base; he loves taking it for a spin, even in the bleak winter weather. But he ends up in the back of Natasha’s car instead, with Clint next to him and Bucky riding shotgun.

Steve’s in the control room when they arrive. His gaze flickers to Stiles and he gives a small, warm smile. Stiles moves to his side, letting his fingers brush against Steve’s, but he doesn’t give in to the temptation to kiss him since they have an audience and, technically, Stiles is supposed to be working. Still, the light brush of their skin sends a comforting warmth through Stiles.

“So,” Natasha says. “Grant Ward.”

Coulson nods. “Our systems flagged up a possible match just forty five minutes ago.” He taps at his tablet and a grainy photo fills up one of the screens on the wall. “He’s disguised, but a CCTV camera caught the right angle. It’s definitely him.”

Bucky looks at the co-ordinates. “Minnesota?” 

“There’s an old SHIELD base there. It was decommissioned after the original SHIELD fell; the government didn’t buy it back so it’s been abandoned ever since. It’s exactly the kind of place Ward would set up for Hydra.”

Natasha nods. “If we take the jet, we can be there in just over an hour.”

“I’m sending you out immediately, before Ward has chance to move,” Coulson agrees. 

“Do we have a team?” Clint asks.

“I’m sending Agents Morse, Hunter and Johnson with you, along with a back-up team that will remain on standby with the jet unless you need them. Barton, I want you to take the lead on this.” Natasha’s expression doesn’t change, but Coulson adds, “Romanov, you’ve got a personal investment in bringing Ward down. Barton has the impartiality needed to make difficult calls.” 

“All due respect, Phil?” Clint drawls. “But you know that if it’s personal to Nat, then it’s personal to me.” 

Coulson pauses, then nods once, acknowledging that point. “Both of you, then.”

“Tell the team to be at the jet in ten,” Natasha says.

Stiles glances at Steve. “You’re not coming?”

He shakes his head. “Natasha, Bucky and Clint are going with you. Coulson and I decided it would be best if I return to the tower, just on the off chance that Viper or Hydra try anything. We’ll be down three team members, two of them heavy hitters.” He pauses for a second before adding, “Plus I wouldn’t be on top form. You’re pretty distracting in that uniform of yours.”

Stiles grins and cups Steve’s face, pressing a brief kiss to his mouth. “Be safe.”

He smiles slightly. “I’m pretty sure I’m the one who should be saying that to you,” he counters. “So…be safe. Try not to get stabbed again.”

“Cap, yes, Cap,” Stiles replies with a bratty little salute.

Steve grins and kisses him again before letting him go. “I love you.”

Stiles smiles. “Love you,” he returns, letting his fingers brush against Steve’s one more time before he heads for the door. 

He pauses before he opens it though, glancing back at Coulson. “What about our spy? They might have tipped Ward off already.”

“As soon as the system flagged the match, we deleted the record so there’s no possibility of anyone accessing it,” Coulson replies. “The only ones who are aware of this mission are the people in this room.”

Stiles nods and slips out, heading straight for his locker. He changes into his uniform and gears up quickly with his preferred weapons; ICER, knife, garotte, dendrotoxin grenades. After a second, though, he holsters a small, second gun, this one with lethal bullets. He’s only met Ward once, but it’d been enough for him to be sure not to take any chances with the slippery fucker. 

He makes his way to the jet. Natasha’s already there, dressed in the stealth suit Stark designed and created for her; black and navy, with a thin, flexible Kevlar vest, knee high boots and fingerless gloves, plus a belt and plenty of straps for her weapons. Bucky’s in a version of his leather get up, except his metal arm is covered up, since it tends to draw attention which isn’t exactly ideal for clandestine operations, and he’s sans goggles. 

Daisy’s wearing her Quake suit, arms protected by the gauntlets and Bobbi has on her own field uniform, her battle staves crossed on her back, blonde hair pinned in a sleek ponytail, but Clint has settled for some spare SHIELD tac gear, complete with a thin Kevlar vest that leaves his arms bare, as he tends to prefer. He’s tugging on his archery gloves as he boards the jet, his bow slung on his back. 

There’s a back-up team of six – Stiles recognizes Piper as one of the agents and gives a little wave that she returns with a grin – clustered on one side of the jet, already geared up. 

“Agent Barton,” Bobbi says warmly. “It’s been a while since we last worked together.”

He grins back. “I’m kinda looking forward to a trip down memory lane, Mockingbird.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and gets settled in the cockpit. “Buckle up.” 

Stiles quickly obliges, knowing Natasha isn’t one to wait around. He leans back in his seat as the jet takes off, taking a moment to just breathe and take stock of his injuries. The cut on his arm has healed into the beginnings of a scar, but his shoulder and ribs are still a little tender. Fresh bruises from the gala throb, but he’s definitely in decent condition to fight. It feels good to have a mission, to be doing something, instead of waiting for something else to go wrong.

Once they’re in the air, Natasha gives Clint a little gesture over her shoulder, barely looking away from the controls.

Clint gets to his feet, a tablet in his hands. He connects it to the large monitor on one side of the jet, showing them pictures and blueprints of the former SHIELD base they’re about to target. He switches it to a live feed from a discreet SHIELD drone Coulson has sent ahead of them and, sure enough, there’s a few vehicles outside it.

“We don’t know how many Hydra agents are in there,” Clint warns. “But I’m gonna go ahead and assume a lot, going from what we know about Ward. Natasha’s going to land us here,” his fingers slide across the screen of the tablet, expanding the map to show them. “It’s the closest we can get to the base without tipping them off. We’ll be on foot from there. We’ll split and approach the building from all sides, taking out any guards, patrols and alarm systems.”

“And once we’re inside?” Daisy asks.

“Our priority is to arrest Ward,” Clint replies. “Drop anyone who gets in your way. Barnes, I want you at this point,” he points to the screen again. “We can best use your skills as a sniper. Pick off anyone leaving the base and keep an eye out for Ward. If he tries to get away, it’s on you to stop him.”

Bucky nods once. “The Barrett on board?”

Clint gestures to the weapons locker. “All yours, man.” He points to another crest. “I’m gonna be here, picking off anyone running from that direction. The rest of you will be going inside the base; I’ll be on comms to give directions. Morse, Johnson, you two will take the upper levels. That means Stiles and Natasha will be searching the lower ones. Agent Piper, I want you on comms in the jet. If we need help, you’re the lead on the back-up. Is everyone clear?”

Stiles nods. He’s not worked with Clint, Natasha or Bucky on an actual mission before, but it’s easy to shift his perspective of them from the people he lives with to just three other agents he’s working with and answering to. 

As they approach, Clint hands out comms units. Stiles tucks his into his ear, waiting for Clint to confirm that the line is secure and clear before giving his own affirmative through it. He does a weapons check as Natasha cloaks the jet. Within twenty minutes, they’re descending. 

Piper takes her position at controls, giving them a nod as they make their way off the jet. The hatch closes behind them, but the back-up team will be available if they’re needed. 

They split up, forming into a wide circle so they can approach the base from all sides. The building is surrounded by woodland, which is both an advantage, since it conceals their presence, but also a problem, because it’s also hard to spot any guards that might be stationed amongst the trees.

Stiles carefully steps over a trip wire, keeping an eye out for any rigged up security systems or landmines. His progress is quiet, but even the slightest crackle of dead leaves has him tensing. It’s so quiet it’s unnerving and there’s a chill sliding down his spine, that itch clawing under his skin. 

It could just be paranoia. But something doesn’t feel right.

There’s a brief flash of movement to his right. He throws himself forward, into a shoulder roll, and a knife sails over his head, sinking into a tree trunk instead of his skull. He comes up in a crouch, ICER in hands, and fires off a single shot; the guard topples out of his tree, his body giving an annoyingly loud _thud_ as it hits the ground. Stiles holds still, doesn’t dare breathe for a second, but the sound doesn’t seem to have alerted anyone.

He holsters his ICER as he straightens, steadily moving forward again. Up ahead, there’s another twitch of movement and Stiles veers off his path for a second so he can sneak up behind the guard, circling around one of the trees. He creeps up behind him, tapping the device in his palm three times.

When he’s close enough, the guy seems to realize he’s being stalked and starts to turn; Stiles catches the arm swinging towards him, throwing it to the side before he slaps his hand over the man’s throat. There’s a quiet crackle and he twitches twice before crumpling to the floor, out cold. Stiles glances briefly at the disc in his hand, smiling slightly.   
_Thanks, Tony_.

There’s the snap of a twig to his left. Stiles turns, automatically ducking as a blade flashes towards him. He rocks back to avoid another swipe and catches the guard’s wrist, twisting his arm as he hooks his foot around his knee and brings him to the ground, blade pointed to the man’s own throat. Stiles slams his palm into the base of the handle and the knife sinks into his throat, quick and silent. 

There’s two guards up ahead, armed but guns pointed to the floor, still and silent as they keep watch. Stiles checks his ICER; he’s got another cartridge of ammo, but he really doesn’t want to waste bullets since they don’t know what’s waiting for them inside the base. Sticking to other means of taking the perimeter guards out is more ideal, if a little more challenging. 

He slinks forward, waiting until he’s close enough to tap the stun disc three more times. He lets it fly as he starts to sprint and it arcs through the air, hitting it’s mark right on the back of his neck. He instantly goes down and the other guard starts to turn, raising his gun, but Stiles is already right behind him; the palm of his non-dominant hand slams into the side of the assault rifle, turning it away from him as he punches with his other hand, breaking the guard’s nose. He doesn’t let him recover from the shock; he jerks the same hand upwards on the barrel of the gun to loosen the guy’s grip and then grabs the butt of the rifle, twisting until it pulls from the guard’s hands entirely. With a quick swing, he cracks the gun into the man’s head, knocking him out cold. He removes the ammo, tossing it one direction before ditching the rifle. He taps his ring the way Tony showed him and the disc comes flying back, connecting with the ring hard enough to jolt his hand. He shakes out his fingers and carries on.

Three more guards go down, one with the stun disc, another with a quick guillotine choke, and the third with a hard kick to the back that slams him face first into a tree trunk. 

But Stiles hadn’t seen the guy in the tree.

He’s close enough to hear the man move as he aims and he throws himself sideways into a roll. A bullet chews up the ground a few feet away, where he’d been just a second ago, and Stiles pushes up to his feet, ducking behind a tree. The trunk is thick, sturdy, but he flinches slightly when he hears a bullet slam into it on the other side. 

“I hear gunshots,” Clint’s unimpressed voice filters over the comms. “Why do I hear gunshots? C’mon, guys. What happened to stealth?”

“My bad,” Stiles admits. “I missed the guy in the tree.”

“Do you need back up?” Bobbi asks.

He takes a deep breath. “No, I’ve got it.”

He looks at the disc on his palm and then lets it fly, flinging it to his left at the same time he throws himself to the right, sliding the ICER from its holster as he rolls into a crouch and aims. The guard had fallen for it, automatically adjusting his aim as the movement of the disc caught his eye, and the split second of distraction gives Stiles the opportunity to fire. 

Stiles hits his target spot on, right in the centre of the forehead, and the guard hits the ground, unconscious. Stiles makes sure to disarm him and his buddies, since they can’t be sure if these guys are enhanced or how long they’ll stay down. 

With a tap of his ring to get the stun disc to return to him, Stiles moves forward again. He avoids another trip wire and has to take down two more guards, but finally, he can see the base through a gap in the trees up ahead. He stops and takes cover behind a wide, solid trunk.

“Barton?” he asks.

There’s a pause as the others make sure all of the guards outside the base are taken care of. Once Natasha and Bobbi confirm that they are, they wait for Clint’s call before making their next move.

“I’m in place,” he finally says. “Barnes?”

“Affirmative,” is Bucky’s cool reply, but then he adds, “And I gotta say, _great_ view, Widow.”

“If you’re looking at my ass through that sniper scope, I’m going to put a knife through your eye,” Natasha replies, but amusement curls through her voice. “You need to be focusing on the mission.”

“Oh, I am,” he tosses back. “This view is just some incentive.”

“Stop flirting over the comms,” Clint complains. 

“Oh, please,” Bobbi drawls. “You haven’t heard flirting until you’ve heard Daisy and Hunter in the middle of a mission.” 

Stiles blinks. Daisy and _Hunter_? The chatter isn’t really distracting, but that definitely takes him by surprise. 

“You’re just as bad,” Daisy cuts in, a smile in her voice. “I’m in position at the back entrance to the base.”

Just like that, they slide right back into professionalism and Stiles shakes off his lingering surprise. Out of nowhere, Natasha falls into step next to him as they approach the front, main entrance to the building. There’s only one more possible exit and Bobbi covers that. 

Two cameras swivel towards them, but they’d lost the element of surprise the second gunshots went off, which Stiles will feel a little bit guilty for when he has the time to. Right now, he focuses on the mission. The main entrance is a heavy bulkhead door and they have to climb five concrete steps to get to it, the iron railings rusted, paint splintering. There used to be a keypad next to the door, requiring either a code or a SHIELD ID badge to access the building, but it had been ripped off when the building was decommissioned. Stiles doesn’t know what Hydra is using to open the door, but right now, it’s sealed tightly shut.

He covers Natasha as she starts fixing a small device to the door. Two men sprint around the corner. Stiles flings his stun disc at one and vaults over the side of the railing, landing in a shoulder roll to avoid hurting his knees. He’s back on his feet a second later with his knife in his hand, but before he can let it fly, an arrow spears through the second guard’s chest and he hits the ground.

“Huh,” Stiles says, tucking the knife away again. “Thanks, Hawkeye.”

“That’s one,” Clint drawls. “I’m leading, Barnes.”

Bucky mutters something particularly colorful in response and Stiles grins. Natasha finishes and jumps easily over the railing, landing next to Stiles, and they both tuck in against the concrete stairs for cover, silently counting down from three. 

A muted _boom_ splits the air above them.

“Any more guards out here?” she asks.

“None,” Clint replies. “Barnes?”

“None on my side, either.”

“Good. You’re clear to enter the building.”

Natasha gets to her feet but Stiles pauses. That itch under his skin is building, clawing at him, demanding that he pay attention to it. Natasha meets his gaze, raising an eyebrow in question.

“They know we’re here,” he says. “And they’re not running.”

“They’re probably working on a nasty surprise in there for us,” she replies.

It makes sense. If Ward’s here, then the building is gonna be rigged with a hell of a lot of security measures. They’re confident enough that, rather than try and escape, they’ve hunkered down inside the building, ready to defend it and Ward. 

He follows Natasha back up the stairs. The explosion had taken care of most of the door, leaving part of it still hanging in the frame, jagged and scorched. 

“It’s a trap,” he points out.

“Probably,” she agrees with a quick, sharp smile. And then she kicks the rest of the door out of the way. “Let’s move, agent.”

There’s still a little smoke in the corridor, fractured slightly by the dim light emitted from bulbs set at regular intervals in the ceiling. They keep pace at each other’s side as they sprint down the corridor, away from the smoke. There’s no alarms going off, which supports the trap theory, but Natasha doesn’t seem concerned and Stiles trusts her.   
Distantly, a rumble rocks the building.

“Looks like Agent Johnson has some company,” Stiles remarks.

Natasha hums slightly. “So do we.”

They reach a fork in the corridor, wide hallways splintering out to the left and right. Stiles can hear the thunder of boots hitting concrete as guards approach from both sides and he meets Natasha’s gaze.

“Do you want left or right?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Left sounds good.”

She grins and they move in smooth synchronization; Stiles hits the ground in a crouch, flinging his stun disc to the left as Natasha vaults over his back, launching herself into a somersault and onto the shoulders of the closest guard to their right; she flips backwards, dropping him to the ground.

The disc takes down one of the men approaching Stiles from the left. Stiles pushes back up and plants a food on the guard’s back, using it to propel himself into a corkscrew and a back kick, slamming another guy into the wall. 

An iron bar locks over Stiles’s chest. A guard has him from behind and the fucker is strong, but he’s definitely not been injecting with the strength serum, which is a relief. Stiles brings his legs up and kicks off the wall hard enough to propel them across the width of the corridor and into the other wall. The grip around him goes slack and he drives his elbow into the guard’s gut, then ducks when another man’s fist flies towards his face; the punch lands on the guy behind Stiles instead, cleanly knocking him out, and Stiles throws his arms around the waist of the guard in front of him, tackling him to the ground. A quick knee to the face and he’s out cold.

A fifth Hydra agent flings two knives as she rushes Stiles. He pushes into an inward 360 dive roll, the knives bouncing off the walls behind him instead, and comes up in a crouch facing the woman. She slides two more knives free from her belt and Stiles tucks backwards to avoid the first one she throws before flipping back to his feet. She does a neat little flick with the second knife to adjust her grip on it, her fingers curled around the handle. 

Her leg snaps out in a side kick and Stiles takes it, curving his back to move with the impact as he grabs hold of her ankle. He yanks hard, pulling her off balance before slamming her to the ground. He kicks the knife out of her grip and knocks her out. 

Behind him, Natasha is still fighting. He turns in time to see a guy grab hold of her arm and try and shove her into the wall, but she brings her legs up instead and propels off the wall and into a backflip, using the momentum to slam the guard to the ground. Her knee snaps forward, cracking his head into the floor. Two rush at her from each side and Stiles steps forward, but Natasha’s already moving, body twisting into the air to scissor her legs around one guard’s neck, her arms locking around the other’s as she corkscrews and brings them both to the floor face first. She lands in a crouch, hands slamming the men’s skulls to the floor. 

She gets to her feet, one hand lifting so she can speak into the comms. “Barton, we’re at the first T-section in the building. Which way?”

“Go right,” Clint replies. “The stairwell will be through the doors at the end of that corridor.”

They both turn to the right, only to see the door open and a cluster of six guards surge through it, all armed with guns. 

Stiles snatches a dendrotoxin grenade from his belt and removes the pin with his teeth. Natasha grabs hold of him and starts moving the second Stiles tosses the grenade down the corridor, pushing them both behind the cover of the wall. A second later, the blast goes off and they listen to the sound of bodies hitting the ground.

Stiles peers cautiously around the corner, but all of the guards are down. Together, they sprint down the corridor, stepping right over the unconscious people on the floor, and make their way into the stairwell just as a door on the other side of the small space opens and Agents Johnson and Morse step through it.

Natasha and Bobbi share a quick nod before the latter and Daisy take the staircase that spirals up towards the upper floor. Natasha and Stiles head down instead, into the guts of the building sprawling underground. It’s noticeably colder and the air smells kinda musty and damp, but it’s well lit, so they don’t need to worry about anyone sneaking up on them in the dark.

Natasha pauses when they reach another cross section. Barton clearly isn’t having to worry about sniping anyone who escapes the building because he’s obviously following them with his tablet, the tracker Natasha has in her suit marking their progress through the building.

“The door right at the end of the corridor opposite you leads into a locker room,” he says. “So either left or right is gonna be your best bet.”

Natasha signals for Stiles to go right as she turns left. Stiles feels a twitch of nerves at not having her at his back anymore, but he ignores it, focusing instead on his surroundings. There are six doors lining the corridor, all of them shut. 

He tries the first one, labelled ‘Vault A’. It’s not locked and he slips the knife from his boot before opening it, ready to defend himself. The room is small, dusty and filled with empty shelves, but no guards and no Ward, and nothing useful. He closes the door again and moves on to Vault B.

This one isn’t empty.

It’s an old interrogation room and it’s definitely been used recently. The smell of blood is thick and bitter in the air, cloying in the back of Stiles’s throat. The room is small, all bleak, blank concrete, and the only furniture is a metal table sat in the middle of the floor with a chair on each side of it. A single bare lightbulb dangles from the ceiling, a circle of light pooling onto the table and glinting off the slick, congealed blood staining the floor.

There’s a man sat in one of the chairs.

He looks like an extra from a horror movie, which should make the sight easier, somehow less real, except the stench of blood and piss and sweat fills the air and as Stiles approaches, boots sliding in the blood on the floor, he can see the viscera, _smell_ it, and he almost heaves before he regains control of his stomach. There are teeth on the table, scattered between hands that lie flat on the metal, cuffs digging into stiff, swollen, _broken_ wrists, chaining them to the table. Bamboo splinters under cracked, ruined nails, old, dark blood crusted around them. 

Stiles knows that the man is dead and has been for a few hours, judging from the state of the blood and the smell of the body. But he still moves forward and presses his fingers to the man’s neck, carefully avoiding looking at the empty, unseeing eyes or the mutilated face tipped towards the ceiling. He’s not surprised that he doesn’t feel a pulse, but disgust and anger rockets through him.

“Barton,” he mutters. “There’s a body here. Someone Hydra tortured. He’s dead, but…”

“Does he have an ID on him?”

Stiles swallows and forces himself to start patting the corpse over, searching pockets for any kind of ID, but there’s nothing. 

“No,” he says. 

“Leave him,” Barton replies. “We’ll let Coulson know to come and collect the body. He can find out who he was, contact any family.” 

“I don’t think so.” Stiles barely recognizes his own voice; he realizes he’s close to losing it, to giving in to the bile burning in his throat. “No one’s gonna be recognizing him, his face is…” he swallows, fights a surge of nausea. “Fingertips are scorched. No teeth, so no dental records, either.”

A pause. When Barton speaks again, his tone is gentle, careful. “There’s nothing we can do, Agent Stilinski. Focus on the mission.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. It feels wrong, so fucking wrong, to just turn his back and leave this poor man here. He’d died alone, in pain, tortured by fucking Hydra. He doesn’t deserve to be on his own again, doesn’t deserve to have to wait, alone in the cold and the emptiness, until someone comes to collect his corpse.

Hours. Just _hours_. If they’d found Ward and the base earlier, they could have saved this man. 

Goddamn Ward. Goddamn _Hydra_.

Stiles wants to burn them all to the ground.

“Agent Stilinski,” Clint says. “We don’t have time. The only thing you can do for him now is take down Ward.”

Stiles knows he’s right. He takes a deep breath and wipes his hands on his pants as he straightens back to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

He starts to turn, but then he freezes, gaze snapping back to the corpse’s neck. A tattoo peeks out from the collar of his sweater and horror coils tight in Stiles’s chest as he reaches out, tugging the fabric down to expose the rest. The familiar, crude depiction of Black Widow is unmistakeable.

“Holy fuck,” he wheezes out. “Barton, it’s Tommy.”

“Who the fuck is Tommy?”

“The leader of the Viper crew that attacked me on the train,” Stiles says quickly. “He’s supposed to be in jail. What the fuck is he…he’s _here_ , Clint. Ward tortured and killed him.”

_Why_? Hydra and Viper are working together and Tommy had just been a small time, petty criminal, one of the grunts in Viper rather than anyone important. He’d been caught and sent to jail. Why the fuck would Ward capture and torture him?

“Jesus fuck,” Clint mutters. “Okay. Agent, you need to move. Find Ward. Priority is the mission, understood?”

Stiles grits his teeth as he looks at Tommy’s body. The guy had tried to kill him, or at the very least badly hurt him. But he didn’t deserve this. And his brother, the stupid kid who followed his big brother into something dangerous, is probably going to have to deal with the death of Tommy on top of everything else.

Reluctantly, he turns away from the corpse. Clint is right. He needs to focus on completing their mission. And he _really_ needs to get out of this room; if he keeps breathing in that smell for much longer, he’s gonna lose the battle to keep the contents of his stomach from spewing everywhere.

He closes the door behind him. He realizes his hands are shaking and that horror, that indescribable, visceral rage at seeing Ward’s brutality, threatens to boil over, searing through him. For a second, it threatens to consume him, but he exhales slowly, wrestles with that anger until it’s cold and grounding, an anchor to keep him focused on the mission, just like Bucky taught him.

Footsteps thunder towards him. He opens his eyes and pushes away from the door, throwing himself into a dive roll, fingers snagging the knife from his boot. He lets it fly the second he’s in a crouch and doesn’t wait to see it sink into one guard’s throat; he surges to his feet and slams into another one, bringing his knee up into his gut and then, when he doubles over in pain, his face, knocking him out cold.

There’s a gun swinging towards Stiles, ready to fire. Stiles slams one hand into the guard’s throat as he pushes the gun down with his other, the bullet punching into concrete instead, and Stiles plants his foot on the guy’s thigh, using it to leverage up until he’s on the man’s shoulders. He grabs the guard’s arm as he raises his gun again and drops back, slamming him over his head and into the floor. He rolls, snatches the gun from the guy’s lax grip, and drops three more guards with quick, precise shots.

Two more guards try and box him in. Stiles drops, sliding across the floor between one man’s legs, and turns as he pushes up, slapping the stun disc onto his thigh, and he goes down hard. Stiles steps over him but is immediately grabbed in a clinch by the second guard; a knee snaps into his side and his breath explodes out of him, pain spearing through him.

Another knee, this time to his gut, and Stiles grits his teeth. He brings his own knee up, planting it on the guy’s ribs, and swings his body up, his other leg curling around the guard’s neck. He gets hold of the man’s wrist and drops to the floor, locking him into an armbar, and then rolls slightly to bring the guard down too, adjusting the pressure until his arm breaks, the brutal _snap_ echoing through the corridor. The guy screams, scrabbling to get free, and Stiles releases him to drive his elbow into his face, and he goes still and silent.

Three more guards. Stiles drops one with his ICER and retrieves his knife from the throat of the guy he’d first taken out, hamstringing the second guard with it. He knocks him out with a neat punch and twists to avoid the last guard’s kick, swinging around his body and onto his back, legs around his throat. The man drops and an ache throbs through Stiles’s back as he’s slammed into the ground, but he keeps a lock on the guard’s neck, tightening his hold and lifting his hips so the man can’t get any kind of traction to get free.

With a quick, sharp twist of his body, another _snap_ rings out, but this time from the guard’s neck. Stiles scrabbles back and to his feet, breathless, and collects his knife and stun disc. He’s tucking the knife into his boot when movement catches his eye.

The door at the end of corridor opens slightly and Ward goes still, a frown slashing across his face.

Stiles runs.

He pushes himself as fast as he can, but the door still snaps shut before he reaches it. He doesn’t pause, just slams into it with his shoulder, breaking it open. His momentum sends him tumbling into the room, but it turns out that’s a good thing; Ward’s foot misses his head by an inch as Stiles tucks and rolls automatically in order to get back on his feet.

Ward backs off, fists raised, ready to defend himself. The fucker looks faintly amused as he tilts his head, eyes dark and gleaming. 

“Do I know you?” he asks, tone casual, like they’re striking up conversation. “You look familiar.”

Stiles shrugs slightly. “Well, my face was kinda everywhere a little while ago, since I’m dating a superhero,” he replies. “Plus, you kind of kicked me out of a sixty five storey window not so long ago.”

“Ah,” Ward nods. “If it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t personal.”

“Funnily enough, it doesn’t.”

“Are you one of hers?” he asks. “Did she send you?”

Stiles frowns, confusion splintering his anger. “Wait, what?”

Ward looks at him, assessing, before he grins, quick and sharp. “So Coulson sent you, then. I’ve gotta give you some respect. You survived and you’re here now. Takes some balls to try and come for me.”

“Shit,” Stiles remarks. “Inflated fucking ego, much? And I live with some pretty big personalities, so that’s really saying something.” He shifts slightly, mirroring Ward’s slow, careful circling. “But here’s the thing, Ward. You’re nothing special. You’re just another slimy Hydra asshole. And barely even a successful one at that.” He tilts his head. “Seriously, though. What’s the damage? Did mommy and daddy not give you enough hugs as a child?”

The barb hits its mark. Ward smiles again but it’s cold, vicious, lip curling into something that looks more like a snarl than anything friendly. That calculated, false friendliness in his eyes is gone; they’re flat and empty, glinting in the light as he rushes Stiles. 

Stiles moves to meet him, blocking a punch with his elbow and snapping his own into Ward’s side. He misses the knee that slams into him, though, and grits his teeth as Ward follows it up with two sharp jabs, one to Stiles’s ribs and one to his jaw. Blood wells up from a split in Stiles’s lip; he spits it out and drives his head forward, but Ward rocks back, out of range of the headbutt.

Stiles grabs his wrist when Ward strikes again and places one foot on his thigh, using it to leverage himself up, swinging his other knee up and into Ward’s throat. He chokes, staggering back, and Stiles lands a hard, brutal side kick to his knee; it gives, Ward’s body twisting to the side as he drops slightly, and Stiles’s fist connects solidly with his nose. When he goes to punch him again, Ward snags his wrist and kicks Stiles’s leg out, rolling with him into a tight lock, his arm strong and unforgiving against Stiles’s throat.

“Now those moves I recognize,” Ward says, voice muffled slightly due to the blood trickling into his mouth from his nose. “May’s been teaching you, huh?”

Stiles grits his teeth, struggling to get free. “Yeah,” he replies breathlessly. “But some things I already knew.” And he sinks his teeth into Ward’s wrist, hard enough to break skin. 

Ward shouts out, yanking back on instinct, and Stiles wrestles the rest of the way free, wiping at his mouth. 

“You know who else has been teaching me?” he continues, dodging a fast back kick. “Black Widow. Captain America. The Winter _goddamn_ Soldier.” He throws himself at Ward, knocking them both the floor, and starts throwing punches. “I saw Tommy. Did you do that?”

Ward brings his arms up, blocking the punches with his elbows. “I thought he might have some useful information on someone I’m looking for,” he replies casually, as if they’re discussing the fucking weather. “Turns out, the only useful thing he did was die.”

Stiles’s lip curls in disgust. “You’re one sick son of a bitch, you know that?”

He actually _laughs_. “Oh, kid, you really are green, huh? Are you really naïve enough to think I learned all of that from _Hydra_?” He catches Stiles’s wrist and flips them, gripping Stiles’s chin hard enough to hurt. “I learned half of those techniques from SHIELD.”

He punches him, hard enough that Stiles’s head slams into the floor. Pain explodes through his skull and sears along his jaw and he blinks, whole body going slack against his will. Ward punches him again, straight across the other side of Stiles’s face, and fresh blood bursts from his lip, slipping into his mouth and choking in the back of his throat.

Distantly, he realizes that Ward must have been playing with him before, testing him, _taunting_ him. Because Stiles is still new, has only been training for less than a year, but Ward has over a decade of expertise under his belt; he’s a serious threat for a goddamn _reason_ and now he’s fighting like he means it, throwing real punches, Stiles hasn’t got a chance out of hell. No matter how much he struggles, he can’t flip or roll them, can’t knock Ward off him, and his fist slams into Stiles’s jaw again.

There’s a ringing in his ears, sharp and piercing, and fire licks across Stiles’s cheek. He can barely breathe and he blinks upwards, trying to focus on Ward, fighting past the disorientation. Another blow and his head snaps back, black spots dancing across his vision. Ward’s hand closes around his throat, fingers tightening, and Stiles jerks slightly, scrabbling at his arm as he chokes.

He pushes past the fuzziness in his head, struggles against the feeling of slowly losing consciousness.

He needs to think.

He needs to _act_.

Vaguely, he thinks of Bucky, of being pinned on the gym floor, and his knees hitch up, coming up around Ward’s hips. His fingers shake as he reaches into his boot, but finally, they close around the handle of his knife and slide it free.

He drives it straight into Ward’s side.

He grunts, yanking away, hand going to the wound just underneath his ribs. The pressure on top of Stiles disappears as Ward staggers to his feet and the knife clatters to the floor as Stiles heaves in a desperate lungful of air, choking slightly on his own blood. 

“Stiles!”

Stiles rolls his head, manages to latch his gaze on Bobbi as she steps into the room, her battle staves in her hands. Distantly, there’s another rumble and Ward grins, hand still pressed to his side.

“You know, Daisy really should be careful with that,” he says. “This place is gonna blow any minute. Wouldn’t wanna set it off too early.”

Bobbi bites out a curse and relays that information over the comms. Stiles’s own unit is gone, knocked free from one of Ward’s punches, but the quaking stops. Bobbi glances at him as she carefully circles around Ward, ready to fight if necessary, but Stiles can see her weighing up her options.

“ _No_ ,” he manages because he isn’t the damn priority here. “Ward.”

Ward’s hand flashes up. He’s holding the derringer Stiles had chosen as a secondary gun – the fucker had stolen it while Stiles was underneath him, the asshole – and Bobbi throws herself to the side, into a roll and out of the path of any bullets. But Ward doesn’t fire; he’s wounded and the place is rigged to blow, and he’s as smart as he is slippery; he takes advantage of Bobbi’s distraction and starts running.

Bobbi swears, loudly, viciously, but she doesn’t follow, just snaps something into the comms before moving to Stiles’s side. Careful fingers touch his face, probing as she assesses his injuries.

“Hey,” she says. “Look at me.”

“I’m good,” he rasps out. “We need to go.”

She puts her staves away and helps him to his feet, keeping one arm around his waist as they head for the door. Stiles slings an arm over her shoulders, letting her support him, and they break out into a run. 

Natasha falls into step next to Stiles as they reach the stairs. He staggers slightly, head still spinning, but she grabs his arm and hauls him back up, rough and impatient, but not unkind. They make it to the ground level and Daisy’s right there, shouting something as they sprint towards the ruined front entrance.

They make it out and down the concrete steps, Stiles wincing as winter sunlight stabs into his eyes, searing straight into his skull. Daisy must sense something that the rest of them can’t because panic flares across her face.

“Grab hold of me,” she yells.

They don’t hesitate, the three of them reaching out to grab a hold of her uniform. Her hands thrust down, a rumble filling the air, and the ground beneath them cracks from the force of her power. A split second later, they’re propelled into the air, Daisy angling perfectly to send them flying towards the trees and away from the explosion that punches through the base. 

Heat slams outwards, debris spits through the air, and they hit the ground hard, all four of them rolling from the momentum of Daisy’s leap. 

Stiles stops when his body hits the bottom of a tree trunk and he’s sure he blacks out for a second. When he opens his eyes again, he can see the base, or what is left of it, anyway; the crumpled bits of structure that survived the blast are quickly being eaten by the fire. Stiles hurts, from Ward, from hitting the ground, from bits of debris that rained down on him due to the blast.

The ringing in his ears is worse from the explosion. He can’t hear anything over it, can barely focus on each painful drag of air into his lungs; all he can do is stare at the fire, the brightness of the flames making his eyes sting, stabbing at the pain already scorching in his head until he wishes he’d stayed unconscious for longer.

Hands on his face.

He jerks, wheezes slightly, reaches up to try and fight the person leaning over him. Brown hair registers a second later. _Daisy_. She’s talking to him, frantic, impatient, hands tugging at his jacket as she tries to encourage him to get to his feet. Blood drips from a couple of cuts from her face and she looks bruised and messy. Distantly, Stiles wonders if the others are okay.

More hands. One cold on the back of his skull, the other strong as it lifts him. He blinks, blinks again, tries to lift his head but it aches too much, so instead he just lets it hang back and stares at the sky. He knows it’s Bucky, can feel the smooth metal of his arm, and he kind of doesn’t want to try walking on his own, so he stays silent as the other man carries him, his enhanced strength letting him hold Stiles’s weight without affecting his speed as they move.

Stiles lets his eyes fall shut. When he opens them again, they’re on the quinjet. Bucky sets him down on the bunk designed for medical transport and straps him in before buckling into the seat next to him. Agent Piper slides into the cockpit and less than three minutes later, the quinjet is cutting into the sky.

Bucky says something. Stiles can’t hear him, can’t make out what he’s saying, and he frowns, focusing on Bucky’s mouth as he tries to pick the words out. Movement catches his attention and he looks at Clint. The older man offers him a tired smile and repeats what Bucky had said, but not vocally; he signs it to Stiles in ASL.

_Stevie will kill us_.

Stiles smiles slightly. “I’d rather he kill Ward.” He can feel the vibration of his voice, but he can’t actually hear himself speak. It’s disconcerting. “Am I dying?”

Bobbi rolls her eyes slightly, but her expression is pinched as she crouches over him, assessing his injuries. Clint’s grin is a little more genuine as he translates what she’s saying for Stiles.

_Not even close, dumbass_.

“Oh. That’s a relief. Can I pass out now?”

Bobbi’s fingers gently probe at his skull and he winces as they hit a particularly tender spot. He doesn’t wait for her to respond but he doesn’t pass out either. He just tucks his head back onto the bed and lets himself drift.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're near the end! just one more chapter to go after this. 
> 
> warnings in this chapter for: description of injuries, blood, guns, and mind control.

He must fall asleep at some stage, because he slowly crawls back towards consciousness a while later.

The first thing he’s aware of is the quiet purr of the jet’s engines and the sound of voices, and relief pulses through him. He’d been concerned that the explosion might have damaged his ears, but the ringing has gone and he feels a lot more alert, the disorientation seeping away as he slept.

He pries his eyes open and winces slightly. Fuck, but the lights are bright. A cool hand settles on his forehead and it’s soothing enough that he audibly sighs, leaning into the touch. Natasha’s thumb strokes his temple gently. 

“The body,” he says. Or tries to, anyway; his voice is a grating rasp, rough like he’s been chain smoking his whole life, and his throat stings when he speaks. 

Natasha looks down at him, tilting her head questioningly. “The body?”

“Tommy. He’ll – his body will be gone. The explosion.” Stiles closes his eyes, swallowing carefully. “His family should know. What happened to him. So they can have a…a burial or something.”

“Coulson is aware,” Natasha reassures him. “He’ll make sure Tommy’s family is contacted.”

Stiles nods. The straps have been removed and he sits up hesitantly, wincing when dizziness ricochets through his skull. He runs his tongue over his teeth and stretches his jaw with a wince, testing it out. 

“It’s not broken,” Bobbi tells him. “I was worried about a fracture, but I think you got lucky. Just some nasty bruises.”

“Ward?” Stiles asks.

Daisy shakes her head. “He got away.”

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. “Fuck. Ward is a _dick_.”

“Yep, welcome to the ‘Ward is a Douchebag Club’,” she replies. “We’ll make you a T-shirt.”

Stiles leans forward with a sigh. “So, that mission was a complete mess, huh?” 

“For us, maybe,” Bobbi agrees. “But it wasn’t a total bust for Coulson.”

He glances up at her tone, fresh adrenaline spiking through him. “What happened?”

“Coulson made contact with us a little while ago. The mission wasn’t even on SHIELD records, was completely clandestine to avoid being caught by our traitor, did he tell you that?” At Stiles’s nod, Daisy smiles slightly. “Well, he let it trickle out that some agents had been sent on an important mission. He had a hunch and he was correct. Someone tried to get into the files to find out what was going on before we even entered that base.”

“Holy shit. And the person’s been caught?”

“Coulson made sure to look out for it, to catch them right in the act so they couldn’t hide that they’d been there at all,” Bobbi says. “May made the arrest.”

“Who was it?”

“Agent Crawfield.”

***

The last place Stiles wants to go to when they arrive back at the base is medical, but he knows better than to try and argue this time. Instead, he follows Natasha, Bobbi and Daisy to the med bay. 

Clint and Bucky hadn’t been near enough to the blast to get hurt, so they don’t have to put up with being poked and prodded out. Clint disappears but Bucky stays, keeping close to Natasha. Piper and her back up squad head straight to a debriefing. 

Stiles finds a bed and sits down as soon as he reaches it, taking deep breaths to settle the dizziness that keeps washing over him in waves. The lights in the med bay are so bright and he feels a little sick but mostly exhausted; he just wants to sleep, or at least curl up with his eyes squeezed shut and not worry about the outside world for at least eight hours.

He doesn’t get the chance; a doctor is on him within seconds. Stiles kind of wishes that Jemma was here, but he knows she only steps in to offer medical care if there’s no qualified staff immediately available. The doctor is patient, fingers cool and careful as she examines Stiles. He leaves her to it, shifting his gaze to the bed next to him.

Daisy’s already been given an all clear. A nurse wraps her sprained wrist and then lets Daisy clean up her shallow cuts herself, setting a cool compress on the bed so Daisy can soothe her bruises once she’s done. 

Stiles knows that Bobbi had dislocated her thumb when she’d tried to break her fall after the blast; she’d popped it back into place on the jet. The doctor examining her doesn’t seem too impressed at that but is probably also completely used to it, considering he works for SHIELD; he simply checks to make sure she hadn’t caused any more damage before placing a thumb spica splint on her hand. There’s a cut just below her hairline that gets cleaned and sealed with butterfly stitches and a gash on her thigh from sharp debris that has to be closed with stitches. 

Only someone who knows Natasha pretty well would notice the slight, subtle way she leans to one side, compensating for injured ribs. She doesn’t look surprised when the doctor says she’s cracked two of them and her expression remains bland when he adds that her right clavicle has a small fracture. She politely but firmly declines a sling but leans forward to allow a nurse to clean up and stitch a nasty cut between her shoulder blades where part of the building had slammed into her during their jump.

Stiles has a head wound on the back of his skull, where Ward had slammed it into the concrete floor, so he has to have a proper scan to make sure there isn’t any serious injury. He feels impatient, eager to go and speak to Coulson and find out exactly what’s going on with Crawfield, but he stays quiet and still, letting the doctors look him over. Once anything serious is ruled out, one of the nurses carefully cleans and stitches up the cut. 

The shallow wound on his hip had started bleeding again, so the nurse cleans it and reapplies butterfly stitches. He tends to the other shallow cuts and grazes and Stiles’s split lip before offering him a cold compress for his ribs (bruised again, _fun_ ) and the large, nasty bruise on Stiles’s thigh from getting hit by falling debris. His jaw is bruised and painful but, as Bobbi had reassured him on the jet, not fractured. He has a mild concussion, but the worst damage (in his opinion, anyway) is to his neck; brutal bruises have already blossomed where Ward’s hand had gripped him, a ring of gruesome red and black and purple on his throat. The doctor had checked to make sure there isn’t any serious injury, but it still hurts to swallow and talk.

Finally, though, after swallowing down some painkillers and listening to the doctor’s directive to _rest_ , Stiles is allowed to leave the medical bay. Natasha and Bucky head for the elevator, but they both turn when they realize Stiles isn’t following.

“I’ve gotta…” he rasps, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “I won’t be long.”

“I’m pretty sure Steve will come and collect you if you take too long,” Natasha replies. “You’re supposed to rest.”

“I will.”

She nods, running a hand gently down his arm before she and Bucky both leave. 

Bobbi glances at him. “It isn’t easy,” she offers quietly. “Finding out that someone you work with is a traitor.”

Stiles runs his tongue along his lip, tasting the lingering tang of copper. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But…I dunno. Something isn’t right.” 

She looks at him for a moment but doesn’t argue. Instead, she just nods. “Then let’s go find out what’s going on.”

Stiles feels a little woozy and a hell of a lot tired but he pushes it all to the back of his mind, concentrates on that itch at the base of his skull, the niggling, insistent thought that there’s something more going on, that they’ve missed something. Daisy and Bobbi walk with him and after a moment, he glances between them.

“So…you two and Hunter, huh?” he says. 

Daisy smiles slightly. “You didn’t know?”

He shakes his head and Bobbi gives a soft laugh.

“You’re a terrible spy, Stiles.”

They step into a small observation room. May’s already in there and she gives them a slightly unimpressed look but doesn’t kick them out, even though Stiles definitely shouldn’t be here; he hasn’t got the clearance level to watch something like this. Stiles feels a rush of gratitude that she’s bending the rules but he knows better than to voice it with her. Instead, he leans against the wall and watches through the two-way mirror.

On the other side of it, Coulson’s sat at a table. Crawfield’s opposite him, hands cuffed securely to the table, a faint bruise on his jaw. He doesn’t look guilty, or miserable, or angry. He doesn’t look anything at all like Stiles is used to; the arrogance, the sneering hostility, the smugness, that’s all gone.

Sure, he looks resigned, but not necessarily in a bad way. His expression is almost peaceful as he holds Coulson’s gaze, listening calmly and patiently as Coulson speaks. There’s something about it that’s unnerving, clawing at that itch under Stiles’s skin. 

“How long have you been in Hydra’s pocket?” Coulson asks, voice slightly tinny over the speakers in the observation room. “Since the academy? Or did Ward recruit you after?”

Crawfield tips his head slightly. “I don’t work for Ward and I would _never_ work for Hydra. They’re scum.”

“So you work for Viper.” 

Crawfield considers for a moment. “I guess you could look at it that way.”

“How would _you_ look at it, Quincy?” Coulson prompts.

“I’m working for the greater good. For the good of humanity. I didn’t want to betray you, sir, but it was necessary. Lying to you, to everyone…it’s been so hard, but it’s all for the greater good in the end. You’ll see, sir, and you’ll understand. I know you will.”

“Viper has been working with Hydra,” Coulson says. “With Ward.”

“A means to an end,” Crawfield replies mildly. “One that isn’t needed anymore. Ward and Hydra will pay for the things they’ve done. She promises it.”

A chill slides down Stiles’s spine. “I need to speak to Coulson.”

May glances at him. “He’s in the middle of an interrogation.”

“It’s important.”

She considers him for a moment, expression blank but gaze assessing, before she gives a sharp nod and presses a button. Coulson glances down at his watch a second later and then gets to his feet, leaving the room without another word to the man cuffed to the table. The door locks and less than a minute later, Coulson joins them in the observation room.

“Agent Stilinski?” he says. “You should be resting.”

“Something isn’t right,” Stiles murmurs.

He nods. “I know. I feel it too.” Coulson glances towards the window. “That isn’t the Crawfield I hired _or_ the man you and Agent Argent claim to have experienced in training.”

“He said that she promised,” Stiles says. “Ward said something when I was fighting him. He asked if ‘she’ had sent me.” He pauses, frowning. “He asked if I was one of hers. He didn’t tell me what he meant by that or who ‘she’ is.”

“Have you tested Crawfield for drugs?” Daisy cuts in, eyeing the serene smile on Crawfield’s face. “Dude looks high.”

Stiles swallows, wincing slightly at the sting in his throat. “He’s been indoctrinated.”

“So, what? Viper’s a cult now? Brainwashing people?” Bobbi asks doubtfully.

Coulson shakes his head. “No. Like I said, this isn’t the man I recruited. Someone got to him _after_ he was already here.”

May’s expression tightens. “Which means there could be more.”

“It means this ‘she’ could be here,” Daisy adds. 

Coulson nods. “Put the base on lockdown,” he says. “I have a hunch that anyone else involved will be here, ready for the chance to silence Crawfield before he can say anything incriminating. I want all of the recruits that joined at the same time as Crawfield to be brought in to be questioned. I’m going to try and get some answers out of him.”

Stiles lifts his hand slightly. “I’m one of those recruits. Where do you want me?”

Coulson hesitates. “I want to trust you, Stiles,” he says quietly. “But if Crawfield was turned after being recruited, then there could be other traitors in the same group.”

Stiles nods. “I know. It’s okay. Whatever needs to be done.” 

The Director rests his hand briefly, carefully on Stiles’s shoulder before returning to the interrogation room. Stiles turns to May. 

“So, how does this go? Do you handcuff me or…?”

“You’re being pretty reasonable,” Bobbi remarks. “Considering.”

He shrugs slightly. “I get that it has to be done. We have to find the other spies. I want to help with that, even if it means cooperating as part of the investigation. I _worked_ with Crawfield. Any one of the other people I’ve worked with could’ve been a traitor all along. I want them to be found. I want them to pay. I want…” he sighs, closing his eyes. God, but he’s fucking _tired_. “I just want to be able to trust the people around me again.”

Bobbi takes his hand, squeezing once, gently. “We’ll find them.”

“I don’t suppose there’ll be somewhere to lie down wherever you’re taking me?” he asks with a wry smile. “I feel rough as hell right now.”

She nods. “Do you have any weapons on you?”

“Huh? Oh, right.” He quickly removes all of his weapons, handing them over, and lets her do a cursory check for any more he might have hidden.

It’s not exactly fun being on the receiving end of suspicion, but he knows it’s necessary. He offers May and Daisy a small smile as Bobbi leads him out of the room. She doesn’t cuff him but she stays close as they walk down the corridor.

The base is already being put on lockdown, quietly and efficiently without raising any alarms. Stiles knows agents will be gathering any recruits or new agents that are currently in the building, rounding them up to make sure they can’t make a move against SHIELD, and more will be sent out to bring in any that aren’t in the base.

Bobbi takes him to one of the larger vaults. He’s the first one there and he’s relieved to see there’s a cot. He settles down on it, leaning his back against the cold concrete wall, and winces as he yawns, his bruised jaw aching. 

She hesitates. “We know it isn’t you. Ward’s tried to kill you twice now, after all. That doesn’t exactly sound like you’re his ally.”

“You heard Crawfield. Viper plans to wipe Hydra out.” Stiles rests a hand on his sore ribs, sighing slightly. “Besides, Ward asked if I’d been sent for him. I’m guessing someone else already tried to take him out on Viper’s behalf. That’s why he was torturing Tommy, right? Trying to get information on whoever is running the show? Whatever alliance Viper had with Ward before, it’s obviously over. And he doesn’t know who is a spy for Viper and who isn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked if I was one of them.” 

She shakes her head slightly. “We trust you. I wish we didn’t have to include you in this but we have to. We have to be fair to the others. And we have to cover every single possibility.”

“I know, Bobbi,” he says. “Really, I get it. But could you do me a favor? Could you let Steve know I’m gonna be a little late getting home? Otherwise he’ll worry.”

She smiles slightly. “Sure. Can I get you some water or something as well?”

“Water would be awesome. My throat feels like sandpaper still.”

She nods and steps back, pressing a button on her tablet. The vault’s security measures click into place, an invisible barrier locking Stiles into one half of the room with her safely on the other side of it. She disappears briefly but returns with a bottle of water, letting the barrier down so she can hand it to him. 

“Just wave to the camera if you need anything,” she says. “Maybe get some rest?”

“I would, but soon enough this room’s gonna be full of people, some of which are traitors. I’d have to sleep with one eye open.”

Her smile is small and sympathetic. He knows she was an agent before SHIELD fell, that she understands intimately and horribly how it feels to be betrayed by the people you work with, trust and depend upon on a regular basis. He unscrews the cap on his bottle of water, taking a careful gulp, and closes his eyes as the cool liquid soothes his sore throat.

She leaves again and the barrier snaps back into place, a low buzz filling the air, warning him not to try and touch it. Stiles tries to lean his head against the wall but quickly regrets it when pain throbs through the back of his skull. He feels like a wreck and this isn’t really the most ideal place to rest with a mild concussion, but Stiles knows that someone will be watching the camera feed, so he’s safe. 

Less than twenty minutes later, the barrier disappears again. Stiles straightens up, watching as people file into the room. None of them are cuffed, which suggests no one had put up a struggle, and there are a hell of a lot of confused expressions and inquisitive murmurs that go unanswered.

Allison sees him and pushes carefully through until she can reach him. “Stiles,” she breathes. “God, you’re a mess. That _asshole_.” She reaches up, almost touching the bruises on his throat. 

“I’m okay,” he croaks. “I mean, I feel like roadkill, but I’ll be okay. Do you know why you’re here?”

She glances around, lowers her voice as she replies, “The others don’t, but Agent Hunter told me on the way here. Crawfield?” He nods and she adds, “There’s others? _Here_?”

He nods again and anger fractures her expression for a second. Then she sighs and sits down next to him on the cot, resting a reassuring hand on his knee. Within half an hour, there’s thirteen other people in the room, all pretty confused and disgruntled as they wait to find out what’s going on. When the last recruit is lead into the room, the door to the vault closes, leaving them alone. The barrier crackles into place, this time opaque so they can’t see the stairs or the door. 

For a moment, there’s silence. Some glances are shared and there’s some shuffling, but no one seems confident enough to speak. Stiles knows exactly what Coulson is doing; he’ll be watching the security feed, waiting to see how people react to the scenario, keeping an eye out for anyone who’s behaviour isn’t quite right or natural. It’s a good way to sniff out the traitors but Stiles doesn’t know if it’s working. He scans the others but he can’t tell which of them, if any of them, aren’t being genuine. 

Lowell moves to stand next to Stiles. “The hell happened to you, Stilinski?”

“I fell over,” Stiles replies blandly.

“Under a bulldozer?” Lowell folds his arms, frowning. “Something’s going on. You got any idea what it is?”

Stiles shrugs, keeps his tone mild as he answers, “Would I be here if I did?” 

“You notice Crawfield isn’t here?” Lowell’s voice lowers, softens so they’re not overheard. “Is he…?”

“Is he what?”

“You look like shit, Stiles. Was he on a mission with you? Is he dead?”

There’s concern in Lowell’s voice. He’s trying to conceal it, keeping his tone casual, but Stiles can hear it. He gazes at the other man for a moment, trying to figure out if it’s genuine, if Lowell really is worried about Crawfield’s absence because he thinks he might be dead. Or is he anxious for _another_ reason? Concerned that Crawfield’s been caught and might rat Lowell out as well?

Crawfield’s double bluff had worked like a charm, after all. Stiles himself had said he didn’t think Crawfield was involved. For all he knows, Lowell’s in on it too, despite how unlikely it had first seemed to Stiles.

“I don’t know,” Stiles replies finally.

Lowell eyes him. “You’re a shit liar, Stilinski.”

He snorts, thinking about JARVIS going down, the fact that Coulson _still_ doesn’t know about that, about how he’s been trying to find out the traitor and none of people he trains with – except Allison – had known. “You’d be surprised,” he says.

And what a bang up fucking job he’s done. He’d ruled Crawfield and now it turns out the asshole is involved with Viper.

“Are we in danger?” Lowell asks. “The base?”

“I don’t _know_ , Lowell,” Stiles bites out, frustrated. “Why the fuck would I know more than you do?” He sighs. “Look, I have a searing headache, I’m exhausted, and I just want to rest. Save your questions for someone who might be able to answer them, okay?”

Before Lowell can respond to that, Joanna joins them. She looks just as confused and wary as everyone else, dark eyes full of questions, but unlike Lowell, she doesn’t ask them. She just rests a gentle hand on Stiles’s shoulder, friendly and protective, and raises an eyebrow at Lowell.

“I’m sure we’ll find out what’s happening soon enough,” she says calmly. “We just have to trust the Director.” 

Lowell blows out a breath. “I do trust him. It’s everyone _else_ I don’t trust.”

Joanna shakes her head slightly and carefully perches right on the end of the cot. She’d been one of the agents brought in from home; she’s wearing a burgundy cardigan over a floral blouse, neat jeans and heeled ankle boots, her dark, curly hair pinned back slightly from her face with clips. 

“Are you okay?” she asks softly. 

“I’ve been better,” he replies. “I’m starting to think I might not be suited to the secret agent gig. I keep getting completely battered. It’s embarrassing, really.”

She smiles gently. “You’re one of the best agents I’ve ever met.”

“Keep sweet-talking me. It’s soothing.”

She rolls her eyes but gently pats his knee before leaning back against the wall. Stiles feels a little more comforted with Allison on one side and Joanna to his right, a little more secure knowing his friends are right there next to him. He lets his eyes slip shut.

Fuck, but his head hurts. He knows a headache is normal after a head injury, especially with a concussion too, no matter how minor. But the buzzing at the back of his skull is sharp and relentless and he hopes that this might all be over soon. He just wants to crawl into bed and sleep off the building migraine. 

He takes another careful swallow of water in the hopes that staying hydrated will ease the headache quicker. “I deserve burgers after this,” he decides. “And curly fries.”

Allison smiles. “My treat,” she promises.

Joanna gently squeezes his knee. “I can’t believe Ward did this to you. He won’t get away with it.”

The whole world goes very, very still.

For a second, Stiles can’t feel that buzzing in his skull, can’t feel the ache in his body or the exhaustion dragging him down. He can barely _breathe_ , shock and realization and cold, cutting betrayal crashing through him, a vicious storm that leaves a terrifying kind of stillness in its wake.

Slowly, he sits up, looking at her. “I didn’t tell you.”

Joanna’s brow furrows. “Stiles?”

“I didn’t tell you that we went after Ward, that he’s the one who kicked my ass,” Stiles says quietly. “So how did you know, Joanna?”

Allison snaps to her feet, looking just as startled as Stiles, but her expression goes fierce a second later. Stiles stands as well, too sore to fight but ready to try if he has to. Joanna just gazes at him, a calculating look in her eyes before she sighs.

“Okay, fine, you got me,” she mutters, raising her hands. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Stiles.”

“It’s you,” Stiles says. “Ward asked if I was one of hers. That’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one behind all of this?”

She gets to her feet. “Just…hear me out, okay?”

He ignores that. “You’re a traitor. You’re…I thought you were my _friend_ , Joanna. I trusted you. And you’ve been lying all this time.” He stops, gives a brittle laugh. “And Crawfield was working with you. All of that…that bullshit with him taunting you, that was fake, wasn’t it? It was to throw people off, make us think you two hated each other. And it was a way in, right? A way to get us to trust you?” 

“Yes,” she says softly. “But you don’t understand, Stiles. I know you’re upset. I know you feel angry and betrayed but if you just hear me out, if you let me tell you _why_ I’ve had to do all of this, you would understand.” 

“That story about your fiancée,” he snaps. “Was any of that even true?”

Her expression goes hard. “Yes. Of course it was. All of that was true. I despise Hydra, Stiles. I want to get rid of them for good. That’s _why_ I’m doing this.” She reaches out, taking his hands. “Please. I’m not Joanna Bradley, but I _am_ your friend. That was real. I’m sorry I lied to you, I’m sorry that I betrayed you, but I never thought I would truly like and trust you, Stiles. I don’t want to lose that.”

He jerks his hands back, ignoring the throb in his ribs. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I have many names. Joanna is just one of them. Grant Ward knows me as Jennifer Blake.” She looks at him, gaze soft and sad, but not at all regretful. “My real name is Julia Baccari.”

Stiles realizes he’s shaking slightly. He’s too tired for this, not in the right headspace, and the shock and betrayal is tearing him open. He feels like he’s on the edge, knees weak and ears ringing, and Allison steps in front of him, blocking Joanna – _Julia_ ’s – view. She’s tense, braced to fight, to take Julia down, and the others are starting to crowd in, confused but picking up on the fact that something is wrong. Lowell circles to stand behind Julia, ready to attack if necessary. 

They’re on the knife’s edge, ready to tip over, but before the tension can spill into something violent, the barrier goes transparent. It’s still live, crackling slightly, but they can see Coulson, Mack, Daisy and May on the other side of it. His expression is grim as he looks straight at Julia.

“Coulson,” Stiles manages. “Joanna, she’s -.”

“I know,” he interrupts quietly. “Crawfield gave you up, Joanna.”

She turns to face him. “Is he hurt?”

“No,” Coulson answers. “How did you do it? Quincy Crawfield was a good man. How did you turn him?”

Julia smiles slightly. “Like this,” she says and reaches out, fingers curling around Lowell’s wrist. 

Stiles starts to step forward but Coulson lifts his hand slightly, clearly wanting to see what’s about to play out. Julia draws Lowell in and looks him straight in the eyes, her expression shifting, turning into something gentle and beautiful, and Stiles feels pinned by it even without her focus on him. Brown irises slide to silver-white, like ice creeping over her eyes as she keeps Lowell’s focus, drinking it in. 

Her presence fills the space, sweet and insidious, and when she speaks, her tone is soft, compelling, thrumming with thick, intoxicating power. “Lowell,” she murmurs and it hums through the room, sliding like syrup around them. “Darling, won’t you kneel for me?”

Lowell had tensed when Julia touched him but now he’s loose limbed and relaxed, a serene expression on his face. He drops into a kneel, holding Julia’s gaze.

“And, darling, tell me: would you touch this barrier for me?” Julia asks. “If it was for the greater good?”

“The greater good,” Lowell repeats and starts to reach out, fingertips stretched towards the barrier.

“Enough,” Coulson cuts in, low and hard. 

Julia catches Lowell’s hand. “No, darling, it’s okay. You don’t have to.” And then she reigns that power back in, folding it back until she’s just Julia again, beautiful and deadly but not dizzyingly enthralling.

Lowell blinks and then jerks, staggering back. Margot catches him, holding him steady, fury slashing across her face as she grabs his hand, offering reassurance. He looks confused and faintly nauseous, moving as far away from Julia as he can in the space.

“We test recruits for the Inhuman marker,” Coulson says. “You didn’t have it.”

“I’m not an Inhuman,” she replies. “My power was given to me. It’s a gift.”

“From who?”

She smiles. “From someone who hated Hydra just as much as I did when I woke up after my fiancée tried to slit my throat. He’d been experimenting on people – only those who signed up for it, of course. Most were failures, but his serum worked on me. I don’t know the science of it all, just that the formula was a replica of a mutation virus, and it gave me such a wonderful gift.”

Coulson’s expression is tense. “Crawfield wasn’t just indoctrinated by you. You’ve been mind-controlling him.”

Stiles feels sick. No wonder Crawfield was all over the place, torn between his true personality and the traits Julia forced into him, telling him to act a certain way, to say and do certain things, manipulating him for her own gain. All this time, he’d been controlled by Julia. That kind of violation…it makes Stiles want to throw up. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

_This_ is the real Joanna. He’d thought she was his friend, he’d _trusted_ her, and the betrayal is cold and cruel, gripping him with relentless strength. She’s not just a traitor. She’s been controlling the mind of someone innocent. She’s _vicious_.

“It’s over, Julia,” Coulson says quietly. 

It strikes Stiles at the same instant he sees realization crawl over Coulson’s face. If she’s been controlling Crawfield, there could be others that she’s invaded the minds of, people in this very room. 

Stiles tenses, looking around. No one _looks_ suspicious, all of them staring at Julia with matching expressions of anger and discomfort, but even if any of them could be another of her puppets, there’s not much they can do while locked safely behind the barrier.

That doesn’t make Julia’s smile any less unnerving.

“Phil,” she says, gentle, almost kind. “Don’t you see? Quincy’s mind is mine.”

Stiles goes still.

_Fuck_.

She’s been in control of Crawfield this whole damn time. There’s no way he would give Julia up…unless she _wanted_ him to.

Unless she planned for it.

It’s a trap.

Everything goes dark.

The buzzing is gone, which means the barrier is down. The whole damn security system has been shut down. Stiles doesn’t know how Julia got into the systems, how she’s pulled this off, but he hasn’t gone time to think about that. He starts to move, even though he can’t see a goddamn thing, wincing as he bumps into someone and pain sears through his ribs at the impact.

Less than a minute later, the emergency lights switch on, filling the room with artificial light so bright it makes Stiles’s head pulse, throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat. He’s squinting against it, fighting a rush of dizziness, when he realizes there’s something right in front of him.

A gun.

Stiles goes incredibly still. His heartbeat kicks up a notch and he swallows, trying to remain calm. It’s Anderson, a small Derringer clutched in his hand, expression intense with focus and grip unwavering as he aims the gun just a couple of inches from Stiles’s forehead, ready to pull the trigger in an instant.

Stiles doesn’t want to pull his gaze away from the gun but he forces himself to take a quick, sweeping glance around the rest of the room. It takes a muddled moment to pick out the others in the room, all with guns in their hands: Wainwright has two, one aimed at Allison, the other at Margot, Garcia’s is pointed at Lowell, and three more recruits – Wells, McKinnon, Hodgeson – have guns trained on others in the group. 

Coulson had stepped forward but he’s frozen now, calculating the odds of making a move before any of the guns go off. At this range, none of them would survive the bullet punching through their brains. Stiles meets his gaze, adrenaline starting to slide through him, thick and heady, but he doesn’t dare so much as twitch without Coulson signalling his approval. 

Fuck, he’s not close to Wainwright, Garcia, _any_ of them, but it still stings to know that all of them have been spies. He’d been looking for one, possibly two, and it’s staggering to think that Julia has been controlling this many people. It’s not their fault, though, which is both a relief and tricky, because Stiles doesn’t want to hurt them. They don’t deserve it. They don’t deserve to be controlled, to have their minds invaded and twisted and warped until it belongs to someone else. It’s screwed up and _wrong_.

“I thought you instructed for all weapons to be taken off them,” May says flatly.

Coulson doesn’t look at her. “I did.”

Julia smiles, still warm and pleasant, like they’re all friends and not in the middle of a stand-off. “Who took our weapons from us?”

He frowns. “Mack -.”

Mack lifts his own gun, aim trained on Coulson, and Stiles feels the breath seize in his lungs. Julia had got to _Mack_. 

“Damn,” May sighs. “Not again.”

Daisy lifts her hand but using her powers isn’t an option. She can’t quake all of them without risking a gun going off. For a second, a strained silence hangs in the room, tension a thick fog threatening to choke them all, before Julia speaks.

“I’m sorry, Phil,” she says. “I know you’re a good man. I know SHIELD is trying to do good in the world. But I have to do this. It’s all for the greater good. For the cause.”

“And what cause is that?” he asks mildly. 

She smiles. “You’ll see,” she promises. “And when you do, you’ll understand. Everyone will.” She turns her head, just slightly, looking at her puppets. “You know what to do.”

She walks straight past Coulson. May twitches to make a move, but Coulson gives a sharp, tight gesture at his side, calling her off. Stiles grits his teeth, wants to see May take Julia down, wants her to _stop_ her before she can leave, but he knows Coulson is right. May can’t take the risk when multiple lives are at stake. For now, they have to let Julia get away.

They’ll find her. No matter what it takes, they _will_ find her and bring her in, stop her from completing whatever her end goal is. But right now, Coulson has to secure the safety of the people in the room.

Julia pauses at the top of the stairs, glancing back at them all, and then she’s gone, slipping through the door. Stiles holds his breath, hoping, _praying_ , that someone out there will stop her before she can leave the base entirely.

Sweat prickles on the back of his neck. His body aches from standing so still, muscles tight and breathing a little shaky from adrenaline, but he fights against the tiredness. 

The door opens again and Stiles tenses when Anderson jerks slightly in surprise. He half expects to hear gunshots going off, but instead surprised shouts fill the space and there’s a clatter of metal hitting concrete. He blinks, realizes that all of Julia’s puppets have dropped their guns and are cradling their hands. 

Stiles looks down at Anderson’s gun. It’s melted slightly, the metal warped and twisted, and he glances up as Agent Gutierrez rushes down the stairs. 

“Damn, am I glad to see you,” Daisy says, giving him a brief squeeze on the shoulder. “Good job.”

Coulson turns and Mack takes a quick step back, hands raised.

“You don’t understand, Coulson,” he says. “You can’t see beyond your own perspective. I get it, I do, but you have to understand. This is for the greater good.”

“I have a feeling that phrase is gonna get old pretty quick,” Coulson replies mildly. “May?”

A sharp, efficient strike knocks Mack out cold and she crouches, snapping cuffs onto his wrists. They have no clue how Julia’s power works, whether she has to be within a certain distance to a victim, whether her control will fade eventually, but until they have some idea, they’ll have to keep anyone compromised completely secure until they’re not a threat anymore.

Stiles reaches for Anderson. He _really_ doesn’t want to fight – he aches all over and his head is pounding, fire searing through his skull – but the other agents are already gathering to try and make a break for it. 

Lowell’s on it, though, and tackles Anderson before Stiles has to fight. Julia’s puppets are pretty outnumbered and it takes less than two minutes before they’re all subdued, either unconscious or pinned on the floor. Back up arrives quickly to cuff and secure them, leading them out of the vault to lock them in individual cells where they can’t pose a threat. 

Stiles catches a glimpse of Jemma and Fitz, already discussing mind control and how to detect and counter it as they follow the prisoners. 

“Well,” he says hoarsely. “That was all kinds of horrible.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are: the last chapter! I hope you enjoyed this fic, please give feedback if you can <3
> 
> warnings in this chapter for: canon-typical violence, mind control.

A SHIELD agent had collected Allison from the tower and the same one drives them back.

Coulson’s already started a search for Julia Baccari; he’s sent agents out to hit the streets and has his tracking system looking for her. Jemma and Fitz had been already busy when Stiles left, taking scans and blood samples, trying to figure out how exactly the mind control worked, how to reverse it and how to create something to counter it. Stiles had wanted to stay, wanted to _help_ but Coulson insisted on sending Stiles home to rest.

He knows Coulson is right. He’d be of no use in the field right now and he needs to sleep, needs to take a step back so he can recover. But, no matter how exhausted and sore he feels, he can’t get his mind to just shut up for a few minutes. He keeps thinking about Joanna – _Julia_ – and he plays everything over and over again in his head.

Crawfield’s betrayal stung, but mostly Stiles had been upset because he’d been so thoroughly duped by him, but with Julia, it’s so much more personal. He’d considered her his friend and ally. They’d defended each other, worked with each other, they’d had each other’s backs. He’s angry at her for the things she’s done, for sabotaging SHIELD and the Avengers, he’s _furious_ at her part in what happened at the gala with the Hulk. He feels sick at the thought of her being able to control people’s minds. He doesn’t blame Crawfield, or Anderson, or any of them; they didn’t have a choice. All of his rage is aimed at Julia.

But above all of that, brutal and ruthless and cold as ice, is the betrayal he feels. 

“Are you okay?” Allison asks softly, reaching out to rest her hand on his knee.

Stiles swallows. “I trusted her. I _liked_ her.”

“I know. I did too.”

“It’s…it’s fucking terrifying to think that she got into SHIELD, that she pulled all of this off without anyone noticing,” Stiles murmurs. “The thought of mind control is just… _Christ_. And I trusted her. This whole time I saw her as a friend.”

She squeezes his knee gently. “I know. I’m sorry. But it’s over now. She can’t get to anyone in SHIELD again. The people she controlled are secure. SHIELD will find her, Stiles. I don’t care how good she thinks she is, they’ll find her and she will be locked away for all of the shit she’s done.”

“I know. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less, does it?”

She shakes her head, brown eyes soft and sad. “No,” she agrees quietly. “It doesn’t.”

They’re dropped off at the tower and Stiles slides out first, holding the door open for Allison since her arm is still in a sling. She tries to help him but he refuses to lean on her for support considering she’s injured too, so they end up awkwardly shuffling into the building, Allison’s hand on Stiles’s wrist and his arm around her waist. 

Steve’s waiting by the private elevator. Stiles almost _sobs_ at the sight of him. It’s been less than twelve hours since he last saw him but it feels like forever, and Stiles just wants to sink into Steve’s arms and forget the world for a while. Steve pushes away from the wall and closes the distance between them. 

“Hi,” Stiles rasps. 

Steve reaches up, fingertips ghosting tenderly over Stiles’s throat, barely touching the bruises there. “Ward did this?” he asks quietly. His focus moves to the swollen side of Stiles’s face, mapping out the bruises on his skin before he gently touches the cut on Stiles’s lip. “He did this to you?”

“Yeah. He wasn’t fucking around. And he got away _again_ , the bastard.” 

Steve cups the back of Stiles’s head, ready to coax him into a hug, but he lets go with a jolt when Stiles hisses out a breath, wincing. He frowns, fingers finding the edge of the cut, and the concern in his eyes snaps up a notch.

“Concussion?” he asks.

“Mild,” Stiles replies, reaching up to give Steve’s wrist a reassuring squeeze. “Bruised ribs and my neck will be sore for a little while, but I’m okay.” 

“I hate this,” Steve says quietly. “I hate seeing you come home like this. I hate wondering whether you’ll come home at _all_.” He looks back at Stiles’s throat, swallows. “He nearly killed you. Again.”

“I stabbed him, if that helps? Only a little bit and he got away, but hey, who knows? Maybe the asshole bled out somewhere in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, Minnesota.” 

“I don’t think we’d be that lucky,” Allison mutters. 

Steve closes his eyes, carefully resting his forehead against Stiles’s. “I’d ask you to stop doing this to me, but I know it wouldn’t be fair.”

“No, it’s…it’s fair to ask that,” Stiles says with a sigh. “I know it isn’t easy for you to see me hurt. I’m sorry.”

Steve presses a careful, barely-there kiss to the corner of Stiles’s mouth before pulling away. “Come on. You should lie down.”

Stiles considers making a lewd comment but decides against it. He’s too tired to come on to Steve, which is pretty depressing, actually. He lets Steve support him as they step into the elevator, glad to be able to just lean against someone who can handle the weight. They drop Allison off on Natasha’s floor; she kisses Stiles’s cheek and gives his hand a gentle squeeze before slipping into the suite.

Stiles is quiet as they make their way to their own apartment. He heads straight for the bathroom and is glad when Steve doesn’t protest. Instead, he helps Stiles strip and holds him up in the shower as he gets clean, washing away sweat, blood and grime. 

“I really do like you in the uniform, you know,” he murmurs.

Stiles smiles tiredly. “Oh yeah? ‘Cause I look badass and capable?”

“You’ve always been badass and capable,” Steve replies. “I’ve just always had a thing for uniforms. Especially strong, mouthy, sarcastic punks in uniform. I guess I have a type.”

He grins. “I guess you do. Remind me to wear the uniform in the bedroom sometime. But only if you wear yours.”

Steve cups Stiles’s jaw gently, the side that isn’t bruised. “I love you.”

He shivers slightly. “I really needed to hear that,” he murmurs. “It’s been a really, _really_ fucking shitty few hours.” He bumps his nose carefully against Steve’s. “I love you too. So much.”

“I’ve got you,” Steve promises. “Let me take care of you for a while.”

Stiles sighs and feels the tension in his body wash away with the water down the drain, leaving him a little shaky and weak-kneed. The headache’s still there, throbbing away at the back of his skull, and his eyes feel sticky with the need to sleep. So he lets go, allowing Steve to take care of him, and soon he’s dry, bundled up in warm, comfortable sleep clothes, and tucked up in bed. 

Steve curls around him, careful of Stiles’s ribs and bruises. He adjusts the pillows so Stiles can lie comfortably without jostling the cut on the back of his head and then he just cuddles in like an overgrown, super soldier teddy bear. One warm, broad hand settles on Stiles’s stomach, possessive and comforting all at once, and Stiles relaxes completely, closing his eyes. 

“It was mind control,” he murmurs. “The traitor? There was more than one. Joanna, she…” he trails off, swallows.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Steve says softly. “Just sleep.”

But Stiles needs to get it all out, so he keeps going, telling Steve everything, from what happened at the base in Minnesota to the events back at HQ. It’s hard to talk about Julia but he knows Steve senses the depth of Stiles’s betrayal, can tell just how hurt and guilty and angry Stiles is about it. 

“I keep thinking about the people she controlled,” he murmurs. “Like Anderson. I don’t even _like_ him, but…that’s got to be so fucked up, you know? It’s like…it’s like Bucky. Being controlled, forced to do things, terrible things. If I hadn’t been so damn trusting with her…”

“She was controlling them from the start,” Steve reminds him gently. “She had Crawfield turned from day one. It was months before you even interacted with her, Stiles. This isn’t on you.”

He tangles his fingers with Steve’s. “I just…there’s still so many questions. Did she create Viper? Is she the leader? Or is there _another_ puppeteer still hiding behind the curtains? She kept talking about the greater good and her cause but what does that even mean, what is she planning? And she’s still out there. We can’t even be secure in the knowledge that she’s locked up.” 

“Nothing will happen tonight,” Steve promises. “The tower is safe. SHIELD are working on finding her. I’m willing to bet Nat and Buck will start looking for her too. But right now, you don’t need to worry. Just rest. I’m right here.”

Something niggles at the base of Stiles’s skull at the mention of the tower being safe, but he’s too tired to focus on it and the paranoia slips away again a second later. 

He tips his head so he can brush a kiss to Steve’s jaw. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Steve murmurs. “Always.”

Somehow, despite the headache and the throb in his ribs and the whirlwind spinning around in his mind, Stiles manages to fall asleep.

***

It takes a while to drag himself back to consciousness.

His eyes feel gummy and gross and his mouth is dry, tongue tasting fuzzy and weird, like he’s been eating sand. That alone makes him want to just roll over and go back to sleep, but then the soreness hits and, yeah, being awake _sucks_.

His ribs ache with each breath. He’s sure he can feel each and every bruise on his face, neck and body aching in rhythm with his heartbeat and when he swallows, his throat stings and he remembers the sensation of Ward’s hand there, squeezing the life out of him. Beyond his injuries, though, his muscles just ache from the exercise, body tight and sore from tension and exertion.

The headache is still there, too, a horrible, demanding buzz at the back of his head. Slowly, he pries his eyes open and immediately winces as the light spears right through his skull, stirring that ache into a searing throb. 

“Hey,” Steve murmurs. “Here, take these.”

Stiles shuffles until he can sit up. He swallows the painkillers down with water, draining the whole glass to soothe his throat. Even before the pain relief kicks in, he feels better just for being upright and having some water.

“Fuck Ward,” he mutters.

Steve smiles slightly. “I’d ask how you’re feeling, but I think that pretty much sums it up, huh?”

“ _Fuck_ Ward,” Stiles repeats, the asks, “Time is it?”

“Just past midday,” Steve replies.

“I slept for fucking _forever_.”

“You needed it,” he points out. “Did you know you swear a lot when you’re sore?”

“I’m not swearing because I’m sore. I’m swearing because Ward is a dick, Joan – no, _Julia_ – is a traitor, and the sun is way too bright. Turn it down.”

“You want me to turn the sun down.”

“Please. Preferably very soon.”

Steve snorts and presses a fond kiss to Stiles’s temple. “I’ll make you some hot milk.”

“Hot milk?” Stiles repeats, incredulous. “What am I? _Five_?”

“It’s not good to have caffeine when you have a concussion.”

“A _mild_ concussion, Steve, seriously -.”

“How’s the headache?” When Stiles pulls a face, Steve smiles slightly. “Yeah, I thought so. Hot milk. Or hot cocoa, whichever you prefer.”

“Fine, okay. Hot cocoa. With whipped cream. Oh, and marshmallows. The little mini ones, they’re in the cupboard above the microwave.”

“What are you?” Steve teases. “Five?”

“No, I’m grumpy and I want chocolate and marshmallows.” Stiles reaches out before Steve can slide out of bed, circling Steve’s wrist loosely with his fingers. “Thanks for taking care of me. I love you, you know that, right?”

“I know. I love you too, Stiles.” 

Stiles smiles and lets go. His mind had been sluggish when he’d first woken up, but now it’s starting to chug along, picking up speed. He wants to talk to Coulson, needs to find out how the search for Julia is going, but right now, he lets himself relax and enjoy the comfort of bed. 

Steve joins him under the blanket and they sip their drinks in peaceful silence. Outside, it’s snowing, little flakes flurrying down in whorls, but winter sunlight fractures the clouds in the sky, making the skyline outside the window glitter. The hot drink makes Stiles feel a hell of a lot better and the taste of smooth, expensive chocolate is soothing. 

“I’m gonna have to call my dad later,” he murmurs. “And Scott. If they find out I got my ass kicked this badly and I didn’t tell them, they’ll be pissed.”

“Later,” Steve agrees. “Just take it easy for a while, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

When they finish, Steve collects their empty mugs and disappears again. Stiles leans back into the mountain of pillows behind him, closing his eyes, but it’s less than five minutes before he gives in and climbs out of bed. He moves a little stiffly as he gets dressed, tugging on a pair of sweatpants and one of Steve’s sweaters.

Steve gives Stiles an unimpressed frown the second he leaves the bedroom. “What happened to taking it easy?”

“I _am_ taking it easy,” Stiles counters. “Did Allison tell the others about Julia?”

Steve nods. “Bucky left early this morning to join the search. Allison’s at the base; she can’t join in physically, but Coulson agreed she could be useful in monitoring surveillance. Natasha’s still here, she’s been calling some of her contacts. Tony’s got JARVIS searching, too.”

“Huh,” Stiles murmurs. “That’s efficient.”

Steve smiles slightly. “He’s also searching for Ward.”

“Good. I hope he finds him. I deserve a grudge match.”

He shakes his head. “If we find Ward, I’m sending Bucky after him.”

Stiles grins. “Oh, that’d be a _lot_ more fun.”

“Tony thinks so, too.”

Stiles tugs the sleeves of Steve’s sweater over his hands. “Natasha in her suite?”

“I think so.”

“Cool. Is Bruce around?” Stiles asks. “I’m in the mood to watch some cool science.”

Steve smiles, fond. “I think he left a couple of hours ago. Some lecture he wanted to see, I think?”

“Oh. Thor?”

Steve’s brow furrows slightly. “He left for London a little while ago to see Jane,” he replies. “Why?”

“I just…I need to be around people right now,” Stiles admits. “I’m feeling all…ugh, mushy and fragile and just…shitty, okay?”

“It’s okay to admit you need people, Stiles.”

“Ugh,” Stiles repeats. “But, yeah, I do. Being around you guys helps. You’re a weirdly soothing bunch considering you’re a group of messed up weirdos.”

“Thank you,” Steve says mildly. “The others will be pleased to hear that.”

“I’m gonna go see Natasha for a while. See if I can convince her to give me coffee.”

Steve smiles and kisses Stiles’s forehead. “Good luck with that.”

Stiles heads into the elevator. “Natasha’s suite, thanks, JARV.”

Presumably, JARVIS lets Natasha know about Stiles’s imminent visit, because the door to her suite opens just as he reaches it. He smiles slightly and steps inside.

Natasha’s sat on the couch, curled up in a careful position to avoid putting pressure on her back or her ribs. Clint’s sprawled over the armchair, dicking around on his phone, but he offers a lazy wave when Stiles joins them.

“So,” Stiles says, cutting straight to the point. “Julia Baccari. What do you know?”

Natasha looks at him. “Nothing much. She’s been very thorough at hiding herself. We know that she used to teach high school English, before her fiancée turned out to be a Hydra double agent, tried to kill her, and disappeared. Julia ghosted shortly after she left the hospital.”

“So she was telling the truth about that,” Stiles murmurs. 

“How do you feel?” she asks.

“Sore. Pissed off. Betrayed and hurt, and really goddamn angry that I feel betrayed and hurt. It’d be easier if I could completely hate her for all of the lying and backstabbing and Viper stuff.” 

She nods. “It’s never easy when someone you trust betrays you. There’s nothing wrong with allowing yourself to feel hurt.”

“So, mind control,” Clint says darkly. “That’s never fun.”

Stiles sighs. “Yeah. Poor bastards. I just hope it isn’t…permanent, you know?”

“SHIELD will figure it out.”

“I hope so.” Stiles sits back against the side of the couch. “It’s my fault.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Oh, is this that self-flagellation streak?” 

“Seriously, kid, how the fuck is it your fault?” Clint adds. “ _You_ didn’t betray everyone.”

“Coulson trusted me to find the traitor.”

Natasha shakes her head. “Coulson asked for your help and judgement. He didn’t put the responsibility of finding them on you.” 

“I messed up yesterday. I missed that guy and the gunshots went off, ruining any chance of stealth. I let Ward escape. _Both_ times. If I’d done my damn job at the hotel, Ward wouldn’t have tortured and killed Tommy. If I’d done my job _yesterday_ , Ward wouldn’t have got away. He’s still out there, he’s still a threat, because of me.” Stiles exhales slowly. “If I’d been a little less trusting, I would have caught Julia out. I could have stopped her sooner.”

Clint frowns. “Stiles, buddy, you can’t take the weight of the whole world on your shoulders. If you take responsibility for everything, you’re just gonna burn out. Ward wasn’t your fault. Tommy wasn’t, either. Let the blame lie entirely with Ward; the asshole deserves it. And Julia wasn’t your fault, either. She duped Coulson, she duped _everyone_. Don’t beat yourself up over shit that ain’t your fault.”

“Stop feeling guilty,” Natasha agrees. “Focus instead on what you’re going to do next.”

“You don’t understand,” Stiles says, vehement. “It’s my fault. All of it.” 

“Fuck, Stiles, you’re human. You’re gonna make mistakes. That’s life. But this shit with Ward and Julia? That _isn’t_ your mistake, okay?”

Stiles closes his eyes briefly. “Okay,” he murmurs, doubtful. “Sure. Whatever.”

Natasha sits up with a frown. “Stiles. Maybe you should go lie down.”

The drumming at the back of Stiles’s skull is getting louder, blasting waves of pain through his head. He shouldn’t be getting so worked up while he’s injured and now he’s paying the price for it, the headache starting to dig deeper into his brain, scratching behind his eyeballs.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, okay. Sorry.”

She reaches out, gently squeezing his hand. “Get some rest.”

He gets to his feet, shuffling out of her suite. He takes a moment in the elevator to just lean against the wall and breathe, trying to shut out the pounding in his head. He considers taking Natasha’s advice and going back to his suite to nap, preferably with Steve in bed next to him, but he doesn’t feel like he could actually sleep despite his tiredness.

Instead, he takes the elevator down to Tony’s workshop. The door’s closed, but Stiles has a personal code that he can use to unlock it; Tony had given it to him after getting fed up of JARVIS disturbing him to request entry on Stiles’s behalf. Sometimes, Tony prefers it when Stiles just lets himself in and doesn’t interrupt whatever it is he’s doing. If Stiles’s code doesn’t work, then it means Tony’s initiated a privacy protocol, and Stiles gets the message that Tony wants to be alone without bothering the man at all. It’s a good system.

He punches in his code and the door opens. The workshop is pretty quiet for once; no music, but Stiles can hear Tony muttering out loud to himself and to JARVIS. He follows the sound of it until he sees Tony hunched over a chunk of metal, carefully twisting something with a wrench. Stiles has no idea what he’s working on, but it doesn’t look like one of the suits so it’s either a project for SI or some random idea Tony’s got his flitting around in his brain. 

“Hey, Bambi,” he says without looking up, cursing under his breath when a stubborn nail doesn’t cooperate. “What’s up? I figured Cap would have you on bedrest.”

Stiles shrugs. “Normally I’d love a lazy day in bed with Steve, but I can’t relax right now.”

“Right. The whole SHIELD getting infiltrated again thing.” Tony looks up, squints slightly. “That’s…what? Three times now? I’m almost embarrassed for Coulson.”

“I don’t think this time counts as a proper _infiltration_. Only a few people were affected.” Stiles leans against one of the tables. “Still pretty unsettling, though. Especially since Joanna was my friend.”

“Yeah, betrayal sucks, etcetera, etcetera,” Tony replies, waving his hand dismissively. “Been there, done that, got a bunch of shrapnel in my heart as a souvenir.”

“Any advice on how to deal with it?”

The older man pauses, considering for a moment. Then he sighs and spins in his chair to face Stiles, a small frown on his face. “Sure. Don’t shut yourself off from the world because of it. It’s easy to get lost in the feeling of betrayal, but all that does is fuck you up. Don’t fall into the trap of not trusting others, either. That just gets lonely and you end up paranoid.” He shrugs slightly. “Plenty of people around you that you can trust, Bambi. Focus on them instead.”

“That’s…surprisingly good advice.”

“Is it really?” Tony says. “I’m pretty shit at this whole…advice and comfort thing. Sentimentality gives me hives, remember?”

“Sure it does, Tony,” Stiles agrees, humouring him. “And I wish it was as easy as focusing on the people I trust, but I don’t know if I can while Julia is still out there.” 

“SHIELD will find her. Justice will be brought, Cap will be happy, creepy mind control will be off the streets. Everybody wins. Yay.” 

Stiles watches as Tony stands, stretching to pop his spine after being bent over for too long. He grumbles something about being too old for it as he turns away from Stiles, grabbing a rag to wipe grease off his hands.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that,” Stiles murmurs. “The mind control thing.”

“Pretty icky, huh?” Tony replies. “I’m not a fan. It’s invasive, creepy, and it fucks people up pretty damn good. Clint can vouch for that.”

Stiles rubs the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension there. His head is pounding, the headache building again, hot and insistent. “Yeah. I think icky sums it up. The fact that all those people were under her control for so long…it’s chilling, you know? But there’s stuff that keeps niggling at me. Like the fact that she managed to pull off the ambush at the gala.”

“Oh, yeah, remind me to thank her for that,” Tony mutters, tossing the rag onto the table. 

“And her escape,” Stiles adds. He keeps his gaze on Tony’s back, trying to ignore the hammering behind his eyes, the way his vision is blurring slightly at the edges. “It was planned. She was ready for it and she sacrificed her pawns in order to escape. She willingly gave up the people under her control. Why would she do that? Because she has someone _else_ under her thumb? Someone who wasn’t involved in her escape?”

Tony shrugs. “Could be, Bambi. Probably best to check in with Agent about that.”

“And JARVIS?” Stiles continues. Heat scrapes up his spine, piercing into the base of his skull. There’s a harsh drumming sound in his ears, filling up his head, pulsing in rhythm with each flare of urgent, relentless pain. He tucks his hands into his pockets. “She found someone who could access his systems and shut him down. Someone who knew enough to do that.” 

Tony goes still. “You’re right.”

“But the thing I really keep thinking about, the niggling little thought that keeps scratching and scratching away in my head until I can’t focus on anything else is: what if she could compel someone to _forget_? What if one of her puppets didn’t even know they were being controlled? What if they escaped SHIELD’s scrutiny? They could be anywhere. They could be _anyone_. And there’s a lot of damage they could do. Especially if they knew things that very few others do, could get into places no one else can.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, voice so incredibly quiet. “You had us all fooled, huh, Bambi?”

The workshop pitches into darkness for a second before soft blue light fills it; the emergency system kicking into gear. Tony turns, jaw tight, eyes glinting dangerously as he focuses on Stiles. 

The pain is gone.

Blissful peace fills Stiles’s head, soothing away the angry buzz of noise, replacing the hot throb with cool serenity. He feels almost at peace, settled by the certainty, carved into his bones and engraved in his heart, of what he has to do now. That what he’s doing is right. 

It’s for the greater good, after all.

“What did you do to JARVIS?”

Stiles slides his phone out of his pocket, glancing at it. Just one press of a button and the virus worked, infiltrating JARVIS’s systems before the AI could detect the intrusion. JARVIS won’t be able to reverse it without Tony’s help. The emergency systems have snapped into place but Stiles doesn’t need to worry about those. Tony can’t contact the team via JARVIS now; he’ll have to do it manually.

“ _How?_ ” Tony bites out. And then he laughs, dark and brittle. “Right. I showed you, didn’t I? I fucking _told_ you all of the nifty little security measures I added after the first system breach. All those times you spoke to JARVIS, learning about him…you were gathering information.” A muscle in his jaw jumps. “I’ve shown you fucking...security protocols for the tower, blueprints for Wilson’s wings, shit I’ve made for the rest of the team. I talked to you about my suits. You really played me, huh?”

“No, Tony…” Stiles steps forward, urgent. “I promise, I wasn’t…I mean, yes, I had to know, I had to be prepared, but I’ve been talking about that stuff for _months_ , right? Before I ever joined SHIELD. Because it’s interesting, because I’m fascinated by it, because I love learning about it and I enjoy your company and you…you’re my _friend_ , Tony.”

Tony barks out a nasty laugh. “Right,” he says and then stops, the anger on his face fading into weariness. “Right. Mind control. Stiles, listen to me.”

“No. I know what you’re going to say, Tony, but you don’t understand. You don’t get it, not yet, but you will. This is all for the greater good.”

He sees Tony tense, ready to move, and braces himself. Mentally, he does a quick calculation of Tony’s threat level. Outside of the suit, he’s weaker, more vulnerable, but certainly not defenceless. He’s strong and he’s trained in hand to hand combat outside of the armor. More importantly, he’s brutally intelligent and innovative with it; Stiles has no hope of keeping up with him on that level. 

The arc reactor is a possible weakness that Stiles can exploit, but…

_No_.

Tony never talks about it but Stiles can make some solid guesses. If he has to, as a last resort, he can target the arc reactor. But only when he’s exhausted all over options. Tony is his friend. After all of this, when it’s over, when the others _understand_ , he wants Tony to be able to trust him, to let him in again, something he knows the older man finds incredibly difficult. He doesn’t want to hurt Tony unless he absolutely has to, unless he doesn’t have any other choice.

Tony doesn’t strike at Stiles; instead, he moves towards one of the computer terminals, ready to try and send a signal out of the workshop. Stiles throws himself forward, one arm locking around Tony’s chest, and he brings his other hand up, tapping three times in rapid succession before slapping the device against the vulnerable arch of Tony’s throat.

Tony twitches and hits the ground on his knees. Dark eyes snap to Stiles’s face, full of furious incredulity, and Stiles winces. He feels bad about using Tony’s own technology against him, but the stun disc was his best option. Subtle and discreet enough that Tony wouldn’t notice it, yet powerful enough to incapacitate Tony without seriously hurting him. Another twitch and Tony crumples completely, out cold on the floor of the workshop.

Stiles blows out a breath and taps his ring to retrieve the disc. He rummages through the workshop until he digs up some rope and he makes quick work of tying Tony to the chair. Guilt stabs through him, just for a moment, as he looks at Tony’s face. There’s a strong chance that Tony will never forgive him, let alone trust him again. There’s an equally strong chance that the others won’t either.

But it’s for the greater good. He has to do it. They have to understand; even if they don’t like it, even if they hate him for his involvement in it…they’ll understand someday. Stiles is certain of it.

He leaves the workshop and opens the manual keypad, cutting the wires inside; the doors lock and will stay sealed until JARVIS is back up and running. He takes the stairs up to his and Steve’s suit. He manually opens the door; with JARVIS down, the doors in the tower rely on a separate system that requires codes to gain entry. Stiles taps in his personal code and the door slides open. He pauses, holding his breath for a second, but the suite is empty. 

Relieved, he rushes into the bedroom. He’s got time – JARVIS is down and the biggest threats are out of the building – but he still feels jittery and impatient. He knows better than to underestimate Natasha or Clint and Steve’s here too, somewhere. The sooner he’s finished and out of the tower, the better. 

There’s a duffel bag shoved at the back of the closet, hidden by a pile of Stiles’s clothes, packed and ready. He feels a brief slither of discomfort; he doesn’t remember packing it, but he knows it’s there and he knows exactly what will be in it. Shaking away the unease, he adds a few weapons from his personal arsenal and changes quickly into clothes suitable for going out into the cold and snow, bleak and bland enough for him to blend in easily with other pedestrians. He heads for the door, bag slung over his shoulder, but hesitates in the living room.

There’s a little notepad stuck to the fridge with a magnet. It’s where Steve always leaves little messages for Stiles, to let him know if he’s gone out, or if there’s leftovers in the fridge, or just to say ‘good morning’ or ‘goodnight’ when Stiles returns from work. Stiles grabs the little pen and scribbles a quick note.

_You’ll understand one day why I have to do this. I’m sorry._

_I love you. Always._

_Stiles._

Satisfied, he leaves the suite. A quick stop by the training room and he adds a few more weapons and nifty gadgets to his bag, and then he makes his way to Bruce’s lab. His personal code works on the keypad there, too, and Bruce hasn’t hidden the board or his adjustments to Klapow’s formula. Stiles snaps a photo, stashes the physical file Bruce has on the formula into his bag, and then wipes the board completely clean. Bruce will be able to recreate it easily now he’s figured out the formula, but it’ll stall him for the tiniest bit of time, and even scant minutes will be beneficial.

He steps out of the lab – and stops.

Natasha tilts her head slightly. “There you are,” she says. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?”

“JARVIS is down, the tower isn’t secure, and we can’t get hold of Tony. We tried his workshop but he wouldn’t open the door.” She raises an eyebrow. “Why were you in Bruce’s lab?”

She knows. Of course she knows. It’s _Natasha_. Besides, if she’s been down to the workshop, she’ll have seen the sabotaged keypad, and the bag slung over Stiles’s shoulder isn’t subtle, either. Her gaze is cool, posture relaxed, but he knows she’s ready to spring at any moment.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” Stiles says calmly.

Her mouth twitches slightly. It isn’t a happy smile. “How long has she had you, Stiles?” she asks softly.

“I don’t…I don’t know,” he admits. “I can’t remember. It hurts if I try to.”

She nods once, a touch of sadness creeping into her gaze. There’s a phone tucked in the pocket of her jeans; she’s been in contact with Steve or Clint, or both. Stiles needs to get moving before he’s up against the three of them at the same time.

“We should have noticed,” she says. “We didn’t. That’s on us. But it’s over now, Stiles.”

“You don’t understand. Julia isn’t the bad guy, Natasha. She’s trying to _help_ people. This is -.”

“All for the greater good?” she finishes. “That isn’t true, Stiles. You just think it is. You believe it because she tells you to believe it. She’s _controlling_ you.”

Stiles tenses, shifting his stance into something more suited for defence. “I have to do this, Nat. I don’t want to hurt you, I really don’t, but if you try and stop us, I’ll _have_ to.”

She smiles a little. “I really wouldn’t worry about that, Stiles.”

Stiles steps forward. “Just stay out of our way, Natasha. Please. I’m begging you.”

Her fingers curl around his arm. She’s barefoot, so she has to tip her head a little to meet his gaze, her green eyes cool and assessing. They soften as she looks at him, but it’s calculated. Stiles knows the difference between Natasha’s genuine fondness and the type she fakes when it suits her. 

“You’re still in there, aren’t you?” she murmurs.

“Of course I am. I’m still me. I just…I’ve been enlightened. You can be too, if you allowed yourself.”

“Having someone control my mind isn’t really my idea of a good time,” she replies. 

She’s stalling and Stiles knows why. She’s waiting for back up, hoping that Steve will be enough to stop Stiles without any violence. She doesn’t want to hurt Stiles just as much as he’s reluctant to hurt her. She will if she has to, of course she will; Natasha will always do what needs to be done, no matter how much she doesn’t _want_ to. But she’s waiting, hoping it won’t come to that.

Stiles grips her wrist, prying her hand away. Her eyes narrow and then she’s moving, fast as lightning, using the narrow space to her advantage as she crowds him into the wall. Stiles allows it, backing up, and he knows she’ll go for restraining him first, will only actively hurt him if she has to. So he waits until he feels the wall against his back and then he strikes, delivering a quick, sharp jab to her cracked ribs. 

She barely makes a sound beyond a stuttered gasp, hissing it between gritted teeth, and he uses the split second of distraction, turning until he’s behind her and she’s the one boxed in against the wall. A palm strike to her fractured collarbone and she winces; another jab to her ribs that gets blocked, and she’s angry now, shifting her priorities from restraining him to bringing him down. Stiles ducks to avoid her kick before she propels herself off the wall, elbow snapping towards Stiles’s face. The bruises on his jaw burn at the impact and his teeth clack together but he doesn’t hesitate; he grabs her wrist, twists, and brings her forward and down. His elbow drives down in a tight arc, slamming right between her shoulder blades, and she cries out. Blood immediately starts to seep through her thin sweater, the stitches on her back torn open from the blow.

She staggers back a step. “You’re an asshole when you’re being mind-controlled, you know that?”

“I told you,” Stiles replies quietly. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“And what about me, huh? You gonna try and hurt me, too?”

Stiles turns slightly so he can get Clint in his line of vision as well. It’s not ideal, boxed between the two of them in a narrow corridor. Stiles isn’t an even match for either of them; Natasha’s injuries have given him slightly more of an advantage than he’d usually have. The two of them fight even better together. He has no chance at winning in hand to hand combat. 

He reaches into his heavy winter coat, retrieving something from one of the inside pockets. Natasha and Clint both tense, the latter stepping forward, but Stiles doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t give either of them the chance to stop him. Behind Clint, the elevator doors are still open, waiting for manual instruction. 

Stiles pulls the pin from the dendrotoxin grenade and starts to run, flinging it behind him as he slams into Clint.

Clint’s hands come up, trying to grab him as they stagger backwards and into the elevator. Stiles slaps a button and the doors slide shut a split second before Natasha can reach them. It’s less time than that before Stiles hears the muted _pop_ of the grenade going off. 

The elevator starts to descend and Clint’s fist slams into Stiles’s bruised ribs. Pain sharp enough to bring Stiles to his knees sears through his side and Clint grabs him in a headlock, arm squeezing just enough to threaten to choke.

“ _Listen_ to me,” he grits out, mouth near Stiles’s ear. “I’m not gonna let you do this.”

“You don’t _understand_ -.” Stiles starts.

“I do. I absolutely fucking do, Stiles. I’ve been there. I’ve had the blood on my hands and it hurts, it hurts so goddamn much and I thought it would tear me apart. It nearly did. But you still have a chance. You haven’t killed or hurt anybody innocent yet. And I’m gonna make sure it stays that way. Because as pissed as I am on Nat and Tony’s behalf, you’re my _friend_ , and right now, being your friend means protecting you from yourself.”

Agony roars through Stiles’s skull. He goes limp instantly, dropping like a stone in Clint’s hold, wrestling to keep the contents of his stomach right where they should remain as black spots dance in front of his eyes. It’s ruthless and blistering, blasting pure, hot pain through Stiles’s brain. That pounding is back, drumming relentlessly in Stiles’s ears, hammering at the back of his eyes. For a second, he can taste blood, thick in the back of his throat as he gasps, hands scrabbling uselessly at Clint’s arm.

He doesn’t let go but his grip loosens slightly. “Stiles?” he asks cautiously. His fingers find Stiles’s chin, pulling his face towards Clint, and he mutters a vicious curse. “Jesus _fuck_ , what the hell is it doing to you?”

Stiles focuses on the throb in his jaw from Clint’s fingers digging into his bruises, trying to concentrate on one source of pain to drown out the other. He’s fighting, wrestling desperately against the fire raging inside his head, and -.

Why is he fighting?

He doesn’t need to. It doesn’t _want_ him to fight; it doesn’t want to hurt him like this. He’s fighting the wrong thing. He stops, closes his eyes and exhales, just lets go, and instantly, the fire burns itself out. Blissful, cool serenity washes like a tide through his skull, soothing the blisters and burns, and it’s so good it makes him want to sob, desperately grateful that the pain is gone.

His fingers find Clint’s wrist. Squeeze, twist, pull down as he gets to his feet, and then he exerts pressure _up_ , forcing Clint to his knees. The sudden move takes Clint by surprise, leaves him disorientated by pain just long enough for Stiles to slam his knee into Clint’s face. His nose breaks, blood bursts, vibrant red against his skin, and he crumples to the floor, out cold.

The elevator stops. The doors open. 

Stiles picks up his bag, slings it over his shoulder, turns.

Grits his teeth.

“Steve,” he says quietly. “Please.” 

He’s blocking the private exit, posture tense, determined, but his blue eyes soften as he looks at Stiles. He hasn’t got his shield with him and he lifts his hands slightly, but Stiles knows better. This is Steve. He’s always armed; his body is just as effective a weapon as his shield.

“Stiles.” His voice is soft, careful. “You don’t need to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Julia Baccari is controlling you. But you can fight it.” Steve takes a step forward, slow and cautious, his gaze fixed on Stiles’s face. “If anyone can fight it, it’s you. You’re stubborn enough to beat it.”

“I can’t. It hurts.” Stiles’s grip tightens on the strap of his bag as Steve takes another step closer. “And I have to do this, Steve. I – I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m doing the right thing. _Julia_ is doing the right thing. It’ll all be okay in the end, I promise.”

Steve takes another step forward, and then another, until he’s close enough to reach out and cup Stiles’s jaw, as gentle as ever, careful not to touch the bruises on Stiles’s face. The sadness on his face is so raw it’s painful to look at and Stiles hates this, he hates that Steve is being reminded of Bucky’s time as the Winter Soldier all over again. He hates seeing Steve look at _him_ with that desperate, hopeful, guilty expression. It’s not right. Steve doesn’t deserve this.

Fire blasts through Stiles’s head. He blinks a couple of times, eyes prickling with tears. “Steve.”

“I’ve got you,” Steve promises. “Always.”

“ _Steve_.”

Steve’s other hand comes up, cradling Stiles’s face gently. “Always,” he repeats. “Just stop. Come upstairs, trust us to help you. We’ll stop Julia. It won’t hurt anymore. It’ll be okay, everything will be okay, I _promise_. Just come upstairs with me.”

“Everything will be okay,” Stiles murmurs. 

Steve nods. “Yes. I -.”

“Everything will be okay,” he says again. “Because we’ll make it okay. Julia will make everything okay again. You’ll see. You’ll understand, Steve, you _will_ , but you’ve gotta trust me first. You have to let me do this.”

Steve looks gutted for a second, torn open and bloody by Stiles’s words, but his expression smooths out again, his despair tightly leashed and hidden. 

Stiles’s heart sinks. Steve isn’t going to stop. He doesn’t trust Stiles, _won’t_ trust him, and he’s not going to let Stiles go. He’s stubborn to the end. He did it with Bucky once, followed and persevered until Bucky finally stopped running and let Steve help him. He’ll do the same with Stiles.

Stiles would give anything to stay, to let that happen. He aches for Steve’s arms, desperately wants to cave in and let Steve hold him, kiss him, make promises that he never has a hope in hell of keeping. If the whole world was safe, if it was only Stiles at risk…he would do it. He’d give in. He’d do anything for Steve. He loves him so much that it fills Stiles’s lungs and bursts like fireworks behind his eyes. It’s the most beautiful, happiest thing he’s ever felt, but it’s never hurt before. It’s always felt as easy and natural as breathing.

It hurts now.

He steps forward, knees shaking as he presses against Steve, closes his eyes as those strong arms circle him, holding him close, gentle, reassuring, so wonderful that Stiles wants to sob. Steve doesn’t see Stiles’s hand reach into his coat, only tenses when that same hand suddenly snaps up, pressing the gun against Steve’s temple.

Four shots in rapid succession, the sound loud and echoing in the foyer.

Steve’s hands tighten on Stiles as he tries to fight it, but Stiles had calculated the right amount perfectly. One shot with the ICER wouldn’t have been enough. Three would do it, but four leaves no chance of Steve being strong enough to overcome it. His body sags, starts to tip, and Stiles goes with him, dropping to his knees as Steve hits the floor. 

He’s out cold before his head hits the ground, Stiles’s hand coming up to pillow the impact. A head injury wouldn’t be serious for someone with the serum, but he doesn’t want Steve to hurt. 

He closes his eyes, an almost-sob shaking out of him, and he covers his mouth for a second. He reaches out with his other hand, gently brushing a lock of blond hair from Steve’s forehead. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t…I didn’t want this to happen.”

Steve’s chest rises and falls with each deep, steady breath. Even with four rounds from the ICER, he won’t be down for long. Stiles can’t afford to linger, no matter how much he wants to, so he exhales and pushes to his feet, tucking the ICER away. He retrieves his bag from the floor and allows himself one last glance at Steve as he approaches the exit.

And then he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I made the 'twist' super obvious, but I hope you all enjoyed it anyway. the part with Stiles slowly realising he's been mind controlled is the initial scene I had in mind when I started this fic and originally, I planned for it to occur in the middle. Ultimately, I decided to finish it on that scene so that the events of the next fic can focus entirely on the fallout. 
> 
> for anyone interested, I listened to these songs while writing this chapter: Exit Music (For A Film) by Radiohead, Citizen Erased by Muse, Wires by The Neighbourhood, and for the scene where Stiles feels that pressure build while he's talking to Tony before the reveal, I listened to Con-Science by Muse (I recommend listening to it, I liked the fit of the vibe of the song for that particular scene).
> 
> I've started the next fic in this verse and I'll be posting the first chapter soon. Please, please comment if you can, feedback on this verse means the world to me and I'd love to know your thoughts. Thank you for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> please do comment/give feedback if you can, I really appreciate it <3
> 
> \--> I'm also allirica over on tumblr.


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